LIBRARY 

UNIV«S»TV  or 


SAN  DIEGO 


THE     MONK 

AND     THE     DANCER 


THE  MONK 

AND 

THE  DANCER 

BT 
ARTHUR    COSSLET?  SMITH 


NEW  YORK:  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


1900 


Copyright,  1900,  by  Char  lei  Scribner's  Sons 


D.  B.  Updike,  The  Merrymount  Press,  Boston 


"KHADIJA  BELIEVES  IN  ME 


CONTENTS 

The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 

I.  La  Trappe  I 

II.  Beyond  the  Walls  19 

///.  The  Folies-Bergeres  45 

IV.  The  Abbot  66 

Trot,  Trot  to  Market  83 

The  Peach  113 

The  Senior  Reader  149 

Some  Old  Families  183 

The  Eye  of  the  Harem  215 


THE    MONK 
AND    THE    DANCER 


THE    MONK 
AND    THE    DANCER 

I.    LA    TRAPPE 


P  OR  three  weeks,  and  well  into  Lent, 
the  rain  had  fallen  upon  the  thirsty  soil 
of  Algeria ;  then  one  night  the  wind 
shifted,  and  the  next  day  the  blazing  sun 
rode  through  a  cloudless  sky. 

At  the  abbey  of  La  Trappe  at  Staoueli 
the  monks  hailed  the  coming  of  spring 
with  joy.  It  meant  for  them  the  begin 
ning  of  out-door  work,  the  culture  of  the 
vines,  the  tending  of  the  nessri,  or  white 
roses,  from  which  they  extracl  the  attar, 
and  the  geraniums  which  furnish  the 
essence  for  which  the  abbey  is  famous ; 
it  meant  the  herding  of  the  cattle  and  the 
sheep  in  the  outlying  pastures,  the  songs 
of  the  birds  in  the  hedges,  the  rustling  of 
the  grass;  it  meant  the  exchange  of  white- 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


washed  cells  for  the  open  air  and  the  blue 
sky. 

Of  the  forty  monks  of  La  Trappe  two 
only  are  permitted  to  speak;  these  are  the 
Abbot  and  the  guest-master,  Brother  Am 
brose.  The  others  may  say  "Memento 
mori"  when  they  meet  each  morning, 
and  may  pray.  Beyond  this  they  are  dumb. 
Each  spends  a  few  moments  of  the  day  in 
digging  his  own  grave,  and  they  sleep  on 
straw,  with  their  coffins  for  beds.  On  the 
wall  of  the  refedtory  is  this  inscription: 
"*$*//  est  dur  de  vivre  a  la  Trappe ',  quit  est 
doux  d'y  mourirj"  Over  each  door  is  the 
word  " Silence" 

Just  outside  the  walls  of  the  abbey,  by 
the  great  gates,  there  is  a  room  devoted  to 
hospitality.  Here  each  day,  from  ten  to 
twelve  o'clock,  food  is  given  to  all  who 
come.  Brother  Ambrose  has  charge  of 
this  room,  and  serves  each  guest  with  his 
own  hands. 

On  this  first  morning  of  spring  Brother 
Ambrose  went  to  the  Abbot  and  made  a 
request. 


La  Trappe 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  this  fine  day  after 
the  long  rain  will  bring  many  travellers, 
and  I  am  beginning  to  feel  my  age.  Will 
you  kindly  give  me  help?" 

The  Abbot  thought  a  moment,  then 
pointing  through  the  open  window 
toward  the  garden,  he  asked,  "Who  is 
that  among  the  geraniums?" 

Brother  Ambrose  shaded  his  eyes  with 
his  hand,  and  answered,  "It  is  Brother 
Angelo.  But  is  he  not  too  young?  There 
will  be  many  guests,  and,"  he  added, 
"women  as  well  as  men." 

The  Abbot  looked  up  quickly,  a  faint 
smile  upon  his  lips. 

"Ah,  Brother  Ambrose,"  he  said,  "at 
what  age  does  one  become  safe?  Send 
Brother  Angelo  to  me." 

The  Abbot  saw  Brother  Ambrose  go 
down  the  grass  walk  toward  the  scarlet 
geraniums.  Then  he  resumed  his  seat. 
Soon  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Enter,"  said  the  Abbot.  Brother  An 
gelo  came  in. 

"Memento  mori,  father,"  he  said. 

[  3  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"I  try  to,"  replied  the  Abbot.  Brother 
Angelo  stared. 

"  My  son,"  said  the  Abbot,  "  how  long 
have  you  been  with  us?" 

"Always,  father." 

"And  how  old  are  you,  my  son?" 

"Twenty-two  years,  father." 

The  Abbot  opened  his  desk  and  took 
out  a  small  red  book  fastened  with  a  lock. 
He  selected  a  key  from  those  which  hung 
at  his  girdle  and  opened  the  book. 

"  My  son,"  he  said,  "  Brother  Ambrose 
is  growing  old,  and  I  have  told  him  that 
you  will  help  him.  I  intend  that  you 
shall  take  his  place  some  day.  For  that 
reason  you  were  taught  languages.  At 
present  you  are  not  to  speak  to  any  of  the 
guests.  Brother  Ambrose  will  attend  to 
that.  Now  listen  to  what  I  shall  read  to 
you,  and  ask  no  questions." 

The  Abbot  turned  several  pages,  and 
then  read: 

" <•  Angela,  Brother.  Born  April 'second \  1873. 
"  Baptized  the  same  day  and  named  Charles 
"  Vittor. 

[4] 


La  Trappe 

"Father,  Count  Charles  Francois  d^Apre- 
"mont,  Co/one/  of  the  Fourth  Chasseurs 
"d'Afrique. 

"Mother,  Miriam,  an  Almee  woman  of  the 
"  tribe  ofOuled  Nail,  who  danced  in  the  cafes 
1  '  of  Biskra,  and  who  died  April  third,  1873. 
"  Given  to  me  May  first,  1873,  by  his  fa- 
"ther,  who  in  the  world  was  my  friend,  and 
"who  died  in  the  desert  some  time  in  May, 


"  Took  the  final  vows  on  ILaster  Monday, 
"1895. 

"Signed  by  me,  RICHARD, 

"Abbot  of  La  Trappe?" 

"  I  read  you  this,  my  son,  for  you  are 
going  to-day  outside  of  the  protecting 
walls,  and  are  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
world.  Remember  how  little  the  world 
has  done  for  you.  You  owe  it  nothing  but 
life.  You  will  pay  your  debt  when  you 
die.  Now  go  to  Brother  Ambrose." 

At  ten  o'clock  the  guests  began  to 
come.  There  were  Spaniards  from  Oran, 
Maltese  from  Bona  and  the  Tunis  frontier, 
French  peasants  from  the  neighboring 

[  5  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


farms,  an  Englishman  or  two,  and  a  com 
mercial  traveller  from  Lyons.  Brother 
Angelo  scarcely  noticed  them.  He  did 
what  Brother  Ambrose  bade  him  do:  he 
found  seats  at  the  tables  for  the  peasants 
and  their  families;  he  handed  about  the 
fish,  the  bread,  the  lentils, and  the  cheese; 
he  comforted  a  crying  child;  he  served 
the  wine,  and  all  the  while  he  was  say 
ing  to  himself,  "My  father  was  Count 
d' Apremont,  and  my  mother  was  Miriam, 
the  dancing-girl  of  Biskra." 

Just  before  twelve  o'clock,  when  all 
the  guests  except  an  Englishman  and  the 
commercial  traveller  had  departed,  a  car 
riage  stopped  at  the  gate;  and  a  moment 
after  the  door  opened,  and  a  woman,  fol 
lowed  by  a  courier  belonging  to  one  of 
the  hotels  at  Algiers,  entered  the  room. 
She  turned,  startled  by  the  cheerless  ap 
pearance  of  the  place,  and  was  about  to  go 
out,  when  her  eyes  met  those  of  Brother 
Angelo;  then  she  walked  slowly  to  the 
head  of  the  table  and  took  her  seat.  The 
courier  sat  at  the  foot.  Brother  Ambrose 

[  6  ] 


La  Trappe 

served  her,  and  she  made  a  pretence  of 
eating.  She  cast  occasional  glances  at  the 
young  monk,  and  he  never  took  his  eyes 
away  from  her.  He  stood  staring  at  what 
he  had  never  seen  before  —  a  beautiful 
woman. 

She  was  very  dark.  Her  hair  was  blue- 
black,  twisted  into  a  heavy  knot  at  the 
back  of  her  head,  and  over  her  ears  two 
sharply  pointed  locks  curved  up  like 
sickles  on  her  temples.  She  wore  a  little 
black  hat,  such  as  Spanish  bull-fighters 
wear,  tilted  down  upon  her  brows.  Her 
nose  was  straight  and  thin,  pinched  in 
just  above  the  nostrils,  which  quivered 
with  each  breath.  Her  lips  were  full  and 
red,  and  her  white  teeth  were  small  and 
shaped  like  orange  seeds.  Her  hands 
were  those  of  the  old  races,  with  long 
pointed  fingers  and  rosy  nails.  She  wore  a 
dozen  rings,  and  all  were  set  with  emer 
alds.  Once  she  looked  about  the  room, 
and  saw  the  Englishman  and  the  com 
mercial  traveller;  afterward  she  did  not 
notice  them. 

[7] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


When  she  could  no  longer  make  a 
pretence  of  eating  she  turned  to  Brother 
Ambrose  and  said,  "You  have  an  excel 
lent  white  wine  here,  I  am  told.  May  I 
not  taste  it?" 

"Why  not?"  replied  Brother  Am 
brose,  and  off  he  went  to  bring  a  bottle 
from  the  abbey  cellars. 

Scarcely  had  the  door  closed  behind 
him,  when  she  turned  and  looked  fairly 
at  Brother  Angelo.  He  stood  as  before, 
tall  and  lithe,  his  closely  cut  hair  curling 
about  his  face,  his  black  eyes  sparkling, 
his  cheeks  glowing,  his  full  lips  parted, 
his  hands  pressed  upon  his  breast. 

"Come  here,"  she  said. 

He  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"What  is  your  name?"  she  asked. 

He  started,  and  put  his  finger  to  his 
lips. 

She  laughed,  put  her  hands  to  her  lips, 
and  threw  him  a  kiss. 

"What  is  your  name?"  she  repeated. 

"Memento  mori,"  he  gasped. 

"How  droll!"  she  said.  "That sounds 

[  8  ] 


La  'Trappe 

like  Latin,  and  I  do  not  know  Latin.  I 
only  know  my  own  language,  and  the 
French  which  I  am  using.  It  is  not  good 
French.  My  accent  is  very  bad.  You  re 
mind  me  of  a  piclure  I  saw  in  Florence. 
It  was  of  a  young  man  into  whom  they 
had  shot  arrows.  I  think  they  called  him 
Saint  Sebastian.  I  see  that  you  wear  sand 
als.  That  is  good;  it  gives  one  a  carriage. 
The  Arabs  wear  sandals,  and  they  walk 
properly.  I  also  wear  no  heels,"  and  she 
put  out  her  little  feet.  "  In  the  evening, 
if  I  wear  slippers,  then  heels — in  the 
daytime,  no.  That  is  so  that  I  may  walk 
well.  I  sent  the  old  man  for  the  wine  so 
that  I  might  speak  to  you.  He  looks 
rather  cross,  but  then  he  is  old.  It  is  very 
sad  to  be  old.  I  am  twenty.  I  have  nearly 
ten  years  yet.  Then  I  shall  marry.  It 
seems  that  you  are  not  talking  much,  but 
you  are  blushing  very  nicely.  I  used  to 
blush  when  men  spoke  to  me.  It  is  a  very 
pretty  accomplishment,  but  I  have  lost 
it.  Still,  if  you  will  come  to  see  me  at  the 
Hotel  Saint  George,  I  will  try  my  best 

[9] 


T'he  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


to  recall  it.  Will  you  come?  If  you  intend 
to  say  something  nice  to  me,  or  to  kiss 
my  hand,  you  must  do  it  very  soon, 
before  the  old  man  returns  with  the 
wine." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  courier, 
"pray  be  careful.  The  Abbot  is  very 
stria." 

"This  Abbot,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh, 
"if  one  could  only  know,  is  probably 
nothing  but  a  man." 

Then  she  turned  to  Brother  Angelo 
again,  and  whispered,  "What  is  your 
name?" 

The  blood  left  his  face,  and  he  trem 
bled  like  a  leaf.  Then  he  said,  "My 
father  was  Count  d'Apremont,  and  my 
mother  was  Miriam,  the  dancing-girl  of 
Biskra."  And  he  burst  into  tears. 

There  was  a  crash.  Brother  Ambrose 
stood  in  the  door,  and  he  had  dropped 
the  bottle  of  white  wine. 

The  Englishman  and  the  commercial 
traveller  walked  down  the  road  together. 
"Monsieur,"  said  the  latter,  "she  is  al- 

[  10] 


La  Trappe 

most  better  in  real  life  than  on  the  stage." 
"Very  clever,"  said  the  Englishman. 
"Who  is  she?" 

The  commercial  traveller  stopped 
short,  and  looked  hard  at  his  companion. 
Finally  he  said,  "  Is  it  possible  that  mon 
sieur  does  not  know?  She  is  Dolores,  the 
Spanish  dancer.  They  pay  her  two  thou 
sand  francs  a  night  at  the  Folies-Ber- 
geres." 

n 

1  HAT  evening,  when  Brother  Am 
brose  had  made  his  report,  the  Abbot 
sat  silent  for  some  moments,  and  then 
said,  "You  are  quite  sure  that  he  spoke? " 
"Quite  sure,  father." 
"And  to  a  woman?" 
"To  a  woman,  father,"  and  Brother 
Ambrose  crossed  himself. 

"Was  she  an  attractive  person?" 
"  She  was  as  handsome  as  the  devil." 
The  Abbot  looked  up  quickly,  but 
Brother  Ambrose  was  evidently  sincere 
in  his  comparison. 


T'he  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  Yes,"  he  continued,  "  in  all  the  thirty 
years  that  I  have  been  guest-master  I 
have  never  seen  one  like  her.  When  she 
walked  up  the  room  she  seemed  to  float 
along;  there  was  no  movement  of  her 
skirts.  There  was  a  faint  odor  of  violets 
about  her  that  filled  the  air.  She  had  a 
fashion  of  half  closing  her  eyes  and  look 
ing  at  you  through  the  lashes.  There  was 
that  pidlure  of  the  repentant  Magdalen 
which  Brother  Thomas  painted  last  year, 
and  which  you  bade  him  burn,  because, 
although  it  was  the  Magdalen,  it  was 
not  repentant.  Well,  this  woman  had  that 
same  look.  Her  throat — " 

"That  will  do,"  said  the  Abbot,  "I 
understand." 

The  two  old  men  looked  at  each  other 
silently.  Then  Brother  Ambrose,  shifting 
his  feet  and  nervously  fingering  the  beads 
of  his  rosary,  said,  "  Father,  when  the 
spring  comes  back,  when  the  whole  earth 
begins  to  breathe  again,  when  the  star 
lings  build  their  nest  in  the  great  cross 
on  the  chapel  roof,  and  the  scent  of  the 

[    12] 


La  'Trappe 

lilacs  fills  the  air,  do  you  never  find  'me 
mento  mori '  hard  words  to  say  ? " 

The  Abbot  went  to  the  window,  looked 
out,  came  back,  and  said  slowly,  "Bro 
ther  Ambrose,  on  such  a  night  as  this, 
after  the  manner  of  men,  I  fight  with 
beasts  at  Ephesus." 

"Thank  God,"  said  Brother  Ambrose, 
solemnly,  "that  I  am  not  the  only  one. 
And  now,  father,"  he  added,  briskly, 
"what  is  to  be  done  with  Brother  An- 
gelo  ? " 

"  You  may  put  him  in  the  chapel  cell 
for  to-night,"  replied  the  Abbot,  "  and  in 
the  morning  I  will  fix  his  penance.  You 
may  leave  him  his  straw,  and  bring  me 
the  key  of  the  cell." 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  asked  Brother  Ambrose. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Abbot. 

Brother  Ambrose  started  for  the  door. 

"  Memento  mori,  father,"  he  said. 

The  Abbot  smiled. 

"I  will  grant  you  an  indulgence  to 
night,  old  friend.  Good  night." 

Brother  Ambrose's  lips  quivered. 

[  '3  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"Good  night,"  he  said.  And  then  he 
added,  "Those  words  sound  very  sweet 
after  thirty  years." 

In  ten  minutes  he  brought  the  key  of 
the  chapel  cell,  and  the  Abbot  fastened 
it  to  his  girdle. 

Brother  Ambrose  lingered  a  moment, 
and  then  said,  "  If  it  is  permitted,  father, 
I  should  like  you  to  say  good  night  once 
more." 

"Good  night,"  said  the  Abbot,  and 
then  Brother  Ambrose  went  away. 

Left  alone,  the  Abbot  sat  unconsciously 
playing  with  the  keys  at  his  waist,  then 
rising,  he  extinguished  the  single  candle 
upon  his  desk,  and  opening  his  door, 
stepped  out  upon  the  grass  walk. 

The  garden  was  bathed  in  moonlight. 
On  the  long  lines  of  almond  trees  the 
white  blossoms  shone  like  silver  stars. 
High  on  the  chapel  roof  the  great  iron 
cross  was  silhouetted  against  the  sky,  and 
the  Abbot  could  see,  at  the  intersection 
of  the  arms,  the  starling's  nest.  He  walked 
slowly  on  past  the  geraniums,  their  scarlet 

[  H] 


La  Trappe 

flowers  black  in  the  moonlight,  and  then 
he  came  to  the  roses.  All  about  him  were 
the  bending  stems,  the  delicate,  fresh 
leaves,  and  the  great,  white  flowers.  He 
circled  with  his  arms  a  dozen  of  the  stalks, 
brought  them  close  together,  and  buried 
his  face  in  the  mass  of  blossoms.  He 
breathed  in  the  fragrance  with  long  gasps  ; 
and  then,  after  a  moment,  he  went  on 
down  the  grass  walk.  At  the  corner  of 
the  wall  was  a  stone  bench,  upon  which 
the  leaves  of  the  vines  cast  delicate  shad 
ows.  Here  he  took  his  seat.  Behind  him, 
trellised  on  the  wall,  was  a  mass  of  honey 
suckle  and  jasmine,  the  perfume  of  which 
saturated  the  warm  air.  From  the  dove 
cote  came  the  soft  cooing  of  the  pigeons, 
and  in  the  far-off  fields  he  heard  the 
lowing  of  the  cattle,  for  even  the  birds 
and  the  beasts  felt  the  sweet  influence  of 
the  spring,  and  could  not  sleep. 

The  Abbot  sat  motionless  for  a  mo 
ment,  overwhelmed  by  the  beauty  of  the 
night,  then  suddenly  he  threw  himself 
upon  his  knees. 

[  15  ] 


The  Monk  and  t/ie  Dancer 


"O  God,"  he  sobbed,  "help  thy  ser 
vant!" 

When  he  rose,  an  hour  later,  his  prayer 
had  been  answered,  and  a  sweet  smile 
played  about  his  lips. 

"  I  will  do  it  this  very  night,"  he  said 
to  himself,  and  then  he  went  swiftly  up 
the  grass  walk.  He  did  not  enter  his  own 
room,  but  passed  through  the  cloisters  to 
a  door  near  the  chapel  wall.  He  opened 
this  door,  went  in,  and  closed  it  after  him. 
He  was  then  in  a  small  passage  which  led 
to  the  barred  door  of  the  chapel  cell.  It 
was  perfectly  dark,  but  the  Abbot  put  his 
hand  on  the  wall  and  felt  his  way  to  the 
end  of  the  passage. 

"  My  son  ? "  he  whispered. 

There  was  no  answer,  but  the  Abbot 
heard  a  rustling  in  the  straw. 

"  My  son,"  he  said,  his  voice  trembling, 
"what  I  read  to  thee  this  morning  was 
all  true,  except  that  thy  father  did  not 
die  in  the  desert.  He  is  alive  and  is  here. 
I  am  Charles  Fra^ois  d'Apremont.  I  am 
thy  father." 

[  16] 


La  T'rappe 

There  was  no  reply. 

The  Abbot  put  his  hands  upon  the 
barred  door,  and  it  swung  open.  The  lock 
was  broken.  With  a  cry  he  entered  the 
cell.  He  felt  the  straw  under  his  feet,  and 
he  heard  a  rat  scamper  out  into  the  pas 
sage.  The  cell  was  empty. 

The  Abbot  went  quickly  out  through 
the  cloisters,  across  the  wide  courtyard, 
where  the  fountain  was  casting  jets  of  sil 
ver  in  the  moonlight,  and  on  down  the 
paved  walk  to  the  great  gates.  He  found 
them  locked  and  barred  as  usual ;  but  as 
he  was  turning  away,  he  saw  projecting 
from  the  shadow  of  the  further  gate-post 
the  foot  of  a  ladder.  Then  his  heart  failed 
him  utterly,  for  he  knew  that  he  had  lost 
his  son. 

He  went  slowly  to  the  ladder,  and  trip 
ping  on  his  robe,  he  mounted  step  after 
step,  until  he  could  see  the  world  sur 
rounding  the  great  wall  which  for  more 
than  twenty  years  had  bounded  his  hori 
zon. 

He  saw  the  white  road  stretching  away 

[  -7] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


to  Algiers,  and  the  long  lines  of  eucalyp 
tus  trees  which  bordered  it  and  cast  their 
shadows  across  it.  He  saw  cultivated  fields 
and  patches  of  woodland,  and  far  off  in 
the  distance  he  caught  the  twinkle  of  a 
light  in  the  window  of  a  shepherd's  hut. 
As  he  gazed  at  these  things,  so  strange 
and  yet  so  well  known,  there  surged  from 
his  heart  to  his  mind  the  memories  of  the 
world.  He  saw  himself  at  the  head  of  his 
regiment ;  he  heard  the  neighing  of  the 
horses,  and  he  saw  the  glint  of  the  moon 
light  on  the  sabres  and  the  buckles ;  he 
heard  the  bugles  ;  he  saw  the  fierce  skir 
mish  in  the  desert ;  he  saw  the  mosques 
and  the  citadel  of  Biskra;  and  then  — 
ah,  then  he  saw  Miriam  the  dancing-girl 
coming  to  meet  him  under  the  palm  trees. 
He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  distant 
city,  and  whispered,  "  Farewell,  my  son  ! 
God  keep  thee  ! " 


[  18  ] 


II.    BEYOND     THE    WALLS 


J.T  was  ten  o'clock  when  Brother  An- 
gelo  stepped  from  the  ladder  to  the  cop 
ing  of  the  wall,  hung  by  his  hands  for 
an  instant,  and  then  dropped  softly  into 
the  world. 

He  knew  four  languages,  his  breviary, 
and  how  to  tend  geraniums;  otherwise  he 
was  as  much  a  child  as  when,  twenty-two 
years  before,  an  officer  of  the  Chasseurs 
had  brought  him  in  his  arms  to  LaTrappe 
and  the  great  gates  had  closed  upon  them 
both. 

But  his  ignorance  did  not  occur  to  him 
as  he  shortened  his  robe  on  one  side  to  the 
knee  and  started  down  the  moonlit  road 
toward  Algiers.  He  walked  smoothly  and 
swiftly,  like  the  Arabs,  with  his  head  held 
high  and  his  arms  swinging  easily.  In  two 
hours  he  came  to  Sidi  Ferruch,  and  as  he 
passed  the  barracks  a  sentinel  called  from 
the  shadow  of  the  gate,  "  Qui  vive?" 

[  19] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  Memento  mori,"  replied  Brother  An- 
gelo,  and  passed  swiftly  on.  Soon  he  came 
to  the  lighthouse  of  Cape  Caxine  and  for 
the  first  time  saw  the  sea  and  heard  the 
clamor  of  the  surf.  Then  he  passed  the  old 
Moorish  fort  at  Point  Pescade,  and  fur 
ther  on,  he  went  through  Saint  Eugene, 
where  the  villas  stood  white  and  silent  in 
the  moonlight. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
he  reached  Mustapha  Superieur  and  saw 
the  lights  of  the  city  and  harbor  beneath 
him.  He  had  made  the  eighteen  miles  in 
four  hours,  and  turning  off  from  the  road, 
he  lay  down  under  a  mimosa  tree  to  wait 
for  the  lazy  sun. 

About  six  o'clock  the  concierge  of  the 
Hotel  Saint  George  came  out  of  the  side 
entrance,  looked  up  to  the  sky,  stretched 
his  arms,  yawned,  and  kicked  a  dog  that 
came  to  greet  him.  Soon  the  courier  who 
had  been  at  La  Trappe  the  preceding  day 
joined  him. 

"  How  is  mademoiselle  ? "  asked  the 
concierge. 

[    20    ] 


Beyond  the  Walls 


"Well  enough,"  replied  the  courier, 
"but  I  am  glad  to  be  through  with  her. 
Yesterday  she  made  a  fool  of  a  young  monk 
at  the  monastery,  and  Brother  Ambrose 
caught  him  at  it.  It 's  a  chance  if  they  let 
me  in  the  next  time  I  go.  Such  as  she 
spoil  business.  She  pays  well,  but  I  am 
glad  that  she  is  leaving.  She  takes  the 
steamer  this  evening  for  Naples." 

"Her  maid  tells  me,"  said  the  con 
cierge,  "  that  she  has  made  fools  of  many. 
A  bull-fighter  in  Seville  was  the  first  one. 
He  started  her.  Then  she  took  to  dancing 
and  the  men  flocked  after  her.  They  say 
the  Prince  of — " 

"Mother  of  Heaven!"  exclaimed  the 
courier,  "Here's  the  monk." 

Brother  Angelo  came  swiftly  up  the 
driveway,  a  mass  of  yellow  mimosa  blos 
soms  in  his  hand. 

"  I  have  arrived,"  he  said  to  the  courier. 

"So  I  perceive,"  replied  the  latter. 

"  Where  is  she  ? "  asked  Brother  An 
gelo. 

"  She  is  where  I  should  be  if  the  world 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


were  rightly  managed,"  said  the  courier  ; 
"she  is  in  bed." 

"  Is  she  ill  ?  It  is  past  six  o'clock." 

Just  then  a  buxom  young  woman  came 
onto  the  terrace. 

"There  is  her  maid,"  replied  the  cou 
rier  ;  "  ask  her." 

For  the  second  time  in  his  life  Brother 
Angelo  spoke  to  a  woman. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said  eagerly,  "  is  she  ill  ? 
She  told  me  to  come,  and  I  got  over  the 
wall  while  the  rest  were  at  complines. 
Will  you  not  tell  her  that  I  am  here  ? " 

The  young  woman  looked  at  him  in 
silence. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said, "  you  do  not  under 
stand  French.  I  speak  also  Spanish,  Eng 
lish,  and  Arabic." 

"You  speak  plainly  enough,"  said  the 
maid,  "but  I  was  wondering  what  there 
was  for  me  in  all  this.  The  little  Jew 
chocolate-maker  in  Paris  gave  me  fifty 
napoleons  for  one  of  mademoiselle's  old 
slippers.  The  English  milord  used  to  pay 
postage  in  gold  for  every  note  I  delivered, 

[    22    ] 


Beyond  the  Walls 


and  the  Abbe  Guilbert  gave  me  absolu 
tion  and  a  kiss  each  time  I  let  him  in  at 
the  servants'  door.  What  will  you  offer  ? 
We  leave  this  evening,  so  I  am  obliged  to 
speak  frankly.  What  will  you  give  ? " 

"Alas,"  said  Brother  Angelo,  "I  have 
nothing  in  the  world  but  these,"  and  he 
held  out  the  mimosa  blossoms. 

"  It  is  not  business,"  said  the  maid,  after 
a  pause, "  but  perhaps  you  will  make  it  up 
to  me  later,"  and  snatching  the  flowers 
from  his  hands,  she  ran  into  the  house. 

Presently  she  came  out  again  and  whis 
pered,  so  that  the  concierge  should  not 
hear  her,  "  I  put  the  flowers  where  she 
will  be  sure  to  see  them.  I  will  let  you 
know  when  she  wakes.  It  will  be  several 
hours  yet.  Go  down  by  the  fountain  in  the 
garden  and  wait  for  me." 

She  looked  at  him  fixedly  for  a  moment 
and  said,  "  So  you  climbed  the  wall,  did 
you  ?  Good,  that  is  the  kind  she  likes." 
Then  going,  she  turned  her  head  and  ad 
ded,  "That  is  the  kind  that  all  women 
like." 

[  23  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


Brother  Angelo  went  down  the  terrace 
into  the  garden  and  after  some  search 
found  the  fountain,  which  was  hidden 
among  the  trees.  He  loosened  his  robe 
at  the  throat,  turned  it  back,  and  plunged 
his  head  into  the  cold  water.  He  took  off 
his  sandals  and  bathed  his  feet,  and  then, 
fresh  and  glowing,  his  crisp  hair  curling 
even  more  closely  about  his  temples,  he 
began  to  wait.  Just  then  a  neighboring 
clock  struck  seven,  and  unconsciously  he 
repeated  the  office  of"  prime."  Every  day 
since  he  could  remember  he  had  said  those 
words  at  this  hour,  sometimes  with  tears, 
sometimes  with  reverent  joy,  always  with 
his  whole  heart.  But  that  was  ages  ago  ; 
nearly  twenty-four  hours  ;  before  he  had 
seen  her  ;  before  his  prayers  were  turned 
from  the  worship  of  an  invisible  God  to 
the  adoration  of  a  visible  goddess.  He 
thought  of  his  broken  vows  without  re 
gret.  Why  had  the  Abbot  and  Brother 
Ambrose  deceived  him  all  these  years  ? 
Why  had  they  taught  him  that  the  world 
was  something  to  hide  away  from  ?  He 


Beyond  the  Walls 


looked  about  him  and  saw  that  it  was 
good.  Why  had  they  talked  so  much  of 
divine  love  when  human  love  was  at  their 
very  gates?  Why  had  they  taught  him 
four  languages,  but  never  a  word  fit  to 
speak  to  the  woman  he  was  soon  to  see 
again  ? 

He  felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Come,"  said  the  maid,  "you  are 
lucky.  She  is  awake,  and  it  is  not  yet 
nine  o'clock." 

He  followed  her  through  the  garden 
to  the  side  entrance.  They  went  up  one 
flight  of  stairs,  and  then  she  opened  a  door 
and  motioned  to  him.  He  put  his  hands 
to  his  heart  and  entered.  It  was  a  sitting- 
room,  draped  and  furnished  in  the  Moor 
ish  fashion.  A  little  table  between  the 
windows  was  covered  with  a  white  cloth 
and  a  breakfast  service  for  two  persons. 
There  were  some  trunks  in  the  room,  and 
the  disorder  which  denotes  either  a  re 
cent  arrival  or  an  early  departure.  On  the 
floor  lay  a  woman's  glove.  Brother  An- 
gelo  picked  it  up.  It  was  the  first  glove 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


he  had  ever  seen,  but  he  quickly  divined 
its  use.  He  spread  it  upon  his  palm,  smiled 
at  its  littleness,  and  then,  blushing  like  a 
girl,  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

A  faint  noise  startled  him  and  he  turned 
quickly.  The  curtains  of  the  door  leading 
to  the  next  room  were  parted ;  and  be 
tween  them,  dressed  in  white,  with  yel 
low  mimosa  blossoms  at  her  bosom,  stood 
Dolores. 

"Count  d'Apremont,"  she  said,  "you 
do  me  great  honor ; "  and  stepping  for 
ward  she  let  the  curtains  fall  behind  her. 

For  a  moment  they  stood  silent,  then 
he  said,  "  What  is  your  name  ? " 

She  put  her  finger  to  her  lips,  cast  down 
her  eyes,  and  whispered,  "Memento 
mori." 

"  What  is  your  name  ? "  he  asked  again. 

"My  mother,"  she  replied,  "was  a 
gypsy  girl  of  Seville,  and  my  father — 
perhaps  he  was  a  peasant,  perhaps  he  was 
the  king.  I  never  asked.  My  name  is  a 
sad  one.  It  is  Dolores." 

"  Dolores,"  he  repeated  ; "  that  is  Span- 

[  26] 


Beyond  the  Walls 


ish.  I  know  Spanish,  English,  French,  and 
Arabic." 

"With  all  those  languages,"  she  said, 
"you  have  still  much  to  learn." 

Then  she  came  close  to  him  and  be 
gan  playing  with  his  crucifix.  He  felt 
her  breath  upon  his  cheek. 

"There  is  another  language,  still,"  she 
said  softly. 

"  Italian  ? "  he  gasped. 

"No,"  she  whispered,  "although  that 
is  very  like  it.  The  language  that  I  mean 
has  no  name  and  no  words,  but  it  is  uni 
versal;"  and  she  put  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  kissed  his  lips. 

ii 

1  HEY  wandered  slowly  north,  through 
Italy,  following  the  spring ;  and  when 
they  reached  Venice,  behold  it  was  June. 
When  a  man  is  twenty-two  and  has 
strength  and  health  and  all  his  hair  and 
the  woman  he  loves,  it  is  difficult  to  be 
unhappy  anywhere  during  the  month  of 
June.  In  Venice  it  is  impossible.  For 

[  27  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


thirty  days  nature  demonstrates  in  Ven 
ice  what  the  world  would  have  been  had 
the  serpent  not  glided  into  Paradise.  Then 
the  timorous  tourist  has  fled  to  Como  or 
Lucerne ;  the  gondoliers  demand  only 
their  legal  fare;  the  sacristan  at  St.  Mark's 
shows  you  the  turquoise  cup  for  an  Ital 
ian  cigar,  and  even  asks  you  to  come  again ; 
the  waiters  in  the  Piazza  do  not  forget  to 
return  your  change;  the  Venetians  move 
back  to  their  front  rooms,  which  have 
been  occupied  during  the  winter  by 
Americans;  the  last  Doge  turns  over  in 
his  tomb ;  the  voice  of  the  Englishman 
is  stilled  in  the  land;  and  summer  has 
come. 

As  for  Brother  Angelo,  he  walked  on 
air.  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  a  baby  of 
twenty-two,  and  to  be  in  love  with  one's 
nurse.  Dolores's  kiss  in  the  little  room  of 
the  Hotel  St".  George  was  the  beginning 
of  life  for  him.  At  that  moment  there  fell 
from  his  eyes  "  as  it  had  been  scales,"  and 
the  world  burst  upon  his  sight.  People, 
customs,  architecture,  pictures,  music,  the 


Beyond  the  Walls 


landscape,  and  most  of  all,  the  children 
and  the  beggars  touched  him. 

"Dolores,"  he  used  to  say,  "here  is  a 
man  who  is  hungry.  Give  him  some 
thing." 

And  she  would  shrug  her  shoulders  and 
say,  "  My  friend,  three  months  ago  you 
had  never  tasted  meat,  and  this  man  ate 
it  this  morning ;"  and  then  she  would  open 
her  purse. 

Music  moved  him  strangely.  Whether 
it  was  an  organ  in  the  street,  a  military 
band  in  the  Piazza,  or  the  Pope's  choir 
at  St.  John  Lateran,  he  used  to  stand  en 
tranced.  Dolores  would  grow  impatient. 

"  If  you  wish  to  hear  music,"  she  said, 
"you  should  hear  the  Tunisians  in  the 
elephant  at  the  Moulin  Rouge." 

AtNaples  he  had  exchanged  his  monk's 
robe  for  the  ordinary  dress  of  a  traveller. 

"  It  is  better  so,"  said  Dolores.  "  It  is 
very  chic  for  a  great  lady  to  have  her  pri 
vate  chaplain,  but  for  me  to  travel  with 
one  —  it  is  better  so." 

Nevertheless,  when  he  first  presented 

[  29  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


himself  in  his  new  attire  she  put  her  hands 
over  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  the  romance  has  all 
gone  out  of  it.  You  are  now  like  every 
body  else,  except,"  she  added,  "  your  eyes. 
They  save  you." 

She  bade  him  keep  his  monk's  dress. 
"  It  will  serve  as  a  domino  for  the  carni 
val  masquerades,"  she  said. 

Rome  wearied  her. 

"But,  monsieur,"  she  said  to  the  guide 
who  was  conducting  them  through  the 
Forum, "  these  buildings  are  very  shabby, 
and  all  the  people  you  are  telling  us  of 
are  dead.  Is  there  no  life  in  Rome,  no 
cafe-chantant^  no  ballet  ? " 

"There  are  the  marionettes,"  he  re 
plied  sullenly. 

"  Good,"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands. 
"  You  will  take  a  box  for  us  for  this  even- 
ing." 

"  This  evening  ! "  exclaimed  the  guide, 
"This  evening,  madame,  they  illuminate 
the  Coliseum  and  Professor  Boldini  de 
livers  a  lefture  in  the  arena." 

[  3°  ] 


Beyond  the  Walls 


"  How  charming ! "  said  Dolores ;  "  but 
still  you  will  take  the  box." 

"There  are  people,"  she  said  to  An- 
gelo  in  Spanish,  "who  prefer  the  Coli 
seum  to  the  marionettes.  This  is  a  strange 
world.  There  was  an  English  milord  who 
came  to  Seville  to  see  me  dance.  He 
could  stay  but  two  days  and  the  last  was 
Sunday,  and  Juan  was  there,  the  greatest 
matador  in  Spain,  and  they  killed  eight 
bulls  and  fourteen  horses,  and  one  of  the 
banderilleros  was  tossed  so  that  he  could 
never  walk  again.  It  was  superb.  And 
where  do  you  think  was  milord  all  this 
while  ?  In  the  Museum,  looking  at  the 
Murillos !  Oh,  those  English  !  They  are 
cold.  But,"  she  added,  "he  gave  me  this 
ring — no,  that  one — Juan  gave  me  this. 
Juan  discovered  me.  Do  you  know  what 
that  means  ? "  and  she  looked  him  full  in 
the  face. 

"  Of  course  you  do  not,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  constantly  forgetting  that  you  are 
only  three  months  old." 

Then,  with  a  laugh,  she  added,  "and 

[  3'  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


baby  shall  not  see  the  naughty  Coliseum; 
he  shall  see  the  pretty  marionettes." 

But  if  Rome  wearied  her,  Venice  was 
a  delight. 

The  night  that  they  arrived  they  sat 
in  the  little  garden  of  the  Hotel  Britannia, 
close  to  the  stone  steps  which  lead  down 
to  the  Grand  Canal.  Across  the  water, 
outlined  by  the  moonlight,  rose  Santa 
Maria  della  Salute.  To  the  left  of  the 
church,  in  the  canal  St.  Mark,  lay  a 
schooner  yacht,  her  harbor  lights  brightly 
shining.  Off  to  the  right  were  the  dark 
masses  of  the  Palace  Esterhazy  and  the 
Academy.  High  above  them  hung  the 
summer  moon,  sending  a  ladder  of  silver 
across  the  ripples  of  the  lagoon  to  their 
very  feet.  They  sat  silent,  her  hand  in 
his. 

Presently,  the  soft,  warm  breeze 
brought  the  sound  of  music,  and  from 
behind  the  palaces  on  their  left  there 
came  a  gondola  hung  with  colored  lan 
terns  and  wreaths  of  flowers.  It  floated 
silently  on  until  it  was  abreast  of  the  little 


Beyond  the  Walls 


garden;  then  it  stopped  and,  after  a  pre 
lude  by  the  violins  and  flutes,  a  woman 
began  to  sing  the  "  Si  tu  ne  maimes  pas  " 
from  "Carmen."  The  laughter  on  the 
balconies  and  in  the  gondolas  suddenly 
ceased;  the  sailors  on  the  yacht,  who 
were  hoisting  in  the  launch,  stopped  and 
belayed;  the  ripples  against  the  stone 
steps  seemed  to  hush  and  die  away,  and 
the  very  air  hung  breathless. 

The  song  ceased,  and  for  a  minute 
there  was  perfect  silence;  then  from  the 
gondolas  came  shouts  of"  Calve !  Calve ! " 
which  the  shores  took  up  until  the  pal 
aces  echoed  back  her  name. 

Dolores  started  to  her  feet.  "  Ah ! "  she 
exclaimed,  "  those  cries  are  sweet  to  her. 
The  finest  thing  in  all  this  world  is  ap 
plause.  I  live  on  it,  and  I  am  famishing." 

Then  she  came  up  to  him  and  said, 
"Do  you  regret?" 

"What?"  he  asked. 

"Your  broken  vows  —  your  chance  of 
heaven." 

"Heaven?"  he  said.  "I  have  it  now." 

[  33  ] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  put 
out  her  hands.  "  Why  do  you  not  tell  the 
truth,  you  men,  when  women  ask  you 
questions?  Why  did  you  not  say,  'Yes,  I 
do  regret'?  Then  I  should  have  loved  you; 
but  you  are  all  alike  —  milord,  the  choco 
late-maker,  the  Abbe,  the  prince — you 
are  all  liars,  except  Juan.  He  was  a  man." 

She  snatched  at  her  sleeve  and  pulled 
it  up  to  her  shoulder,  her  rounded  arm 
shining  like  ivory  in  the  moonlight. 

"There,"  she  cried,  pointing  to  a  red 
line  above  the  elbow,  "  I  was  rolling  a  ci 
garette  for  Juan  and  I  spilled  the  tobacco 
on  the  floor.  His  knife  was  on  the  table, 
and  he  did  that.  He  was  a  man."  And  she 
bent  her  head  and  kissed  the  scar. 

She  walked  rapidly  up  and  down  the 
terrace,  humming  the  song  that  had  so 
moved  her.  Then  she  stopped  before  him 
and  said,  "  I  am  sorry  that  I  spoke  those 
words.  You  do  not  understand  such 
things.  How  should  you?  Nevertheless, 
they  were  true.  Women  like  me  need  the 
stick.  We  kiss  the  hand  that  strikes  us. 

[  34] 


Beyond  the  Walls 


We  prefer  an  order  to  a  request.  Strength, 
audacity,  force,  a  kiss  and  a  blow,  those 
are  the  things  we  like.  A  man  must  keep 
us  women  on  our  knees.  If  he  lets  us  up 
we  are  apt  to  walk  away.  Even  you,  my 
friend,  if  it  were  not  for  your  beauty, 
might  in  time  grow  monotonous.  You 
never  contradict  me.  You  treat  me  as  if  I 
were  a  saint  rather  than  a  woman.  If  I 
touch  your  hand  I  feel  you  tremble.  That 
is  good.  It  is  your  French  blood;  but  you 
are  also  half  Arab  and  should  know  how 
to  make  me  tremble.  Arabs  manage  wo 
men  and  horses  very  well.  They  master 
them.  The  next  time  I  ask  anything  of 
you,  refuse  it,  will  you?" 

"  I  shall  try  to,"  he  replied,  wondering. 

"  Good,"  she  said.  "  It  will  be  refresh 
ing.  Now  give  me  a  kiss  and  end  our 
quarrel." 

"A  hundred,"  he  cried. 

"You  have  forgotten  already,"  she 
laughed. 

"No,"  he  said;  "you  asked  for  only 
one,  and  that  I  refuse." 

[  35  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


She  drew  back  and  looked  at  him  with 
amused  astonishment.  "  It  seems,"  she 
said  finally,  "that  baby  is  growing." 

in 

JL  HE  next  morning  they  went  through 
the  little  court  at  the  back  of  the  hotel, 
and  following  the  lane,  they  crossed  the 
bridge  and  came  to  the  Piazza.  When  it 
burst  upon  them  he  stood  speechless,  but 
she  clapped  her  hands  and  cried, "  See  the 
chairs  before  the  cafes,  and  the  waiters  in 
their  white  aprons.  There  is  a  woman  with 
a  Virot  hat.  I  had  one  like  it  last  year.  She 
has  put  it  on  wrong — she  is  English." 

"  But  the  church ! "  said  Angelo. "  Bro 
ther  Ambrose  told  me  once  that,  of  all 
the  works  of  man's  hands,  this  is  the  most 
beautiful." 

She  glanced  at  the  east  end  of  the 
Piazza  and  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  An 
other  church,"  she  said.  "That  will  wait 
for  a  rainy  day  when  we  cannot  sit  in 
front  of  the  cafes  and  eat  ices,  and  feed  the 
pigeons  and  listen  to  the  band.  You  may 

[  36] 


Beyond  the  Walls 


take  your  time  with  churches;  they  will 
not  run  away." 

But  at  eleven  o'clock  there  fluttered  up 
the  three  flagstaff's  in  front  of  St.  Mark's 
the  banner  of  Italy,  and  the  loungers 
about  Florian's  cafe  started  in  groups 
toward  the  cathedral. 

"Come,"  said  Dolores,  "we  may  as 
well  see  your  church  to-day.  It  seems  to 
be  fashionable." 

As  they  crossed  the  Piazza  her  eyes 
caught  the  four  gilded  horses  from  the 
Arch  of  Nero.  "I  like  those,"  she  said; 
"they  are  alive." 

They  entered  through  the  middle  door, 
adorned  with  enamelled  figures  of  the 
saints,  and  came  at  once  into  the  glory  of 
the  place.  Before  them,  up  to  the  very 
altar  steps,  was  a  kneeling  throng  of  peo 
ple.  Around  them  rose  the  walls  of  glass 
mosaics,  of  alabaster,  of  precious  marbles 
and  hammered  gold.  From  the  domes 
the  light  filtered  through  the  smoke  of 
the  censers  ;  and  far  away,  above  the  high 
altar,  glowed  the  Pala  d'Oro. 

[  37  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


A  priest  held  up  the  Host,  and  out 
of  the  silence  came  the  far-off  note  of  a 
silver  bell.  Angelo  fell  upon  his  knees. 
Again  the  sweet  sound  throbbed  through 
the  air. 

Dolores  bent  over  him,  and  he  felt  a 
tear  upon  his  hand.  "Take  me  away," 
she  sobbed.  "Quick,  or  I  shall  be  pray 
ing." 

They  went  out  onto  the  Piazza  and 
walked  slowly  through  the  arcade  on  the 
right.  They  did  not  speak.  At  the  pho 
tographer's,  near  the  corner,  Dolores 
stopped  and  looked  at  the  pictures  in  the 
window. 

"  There  is  Calve,"  she  said,  "  and  Bern- 
hardt,  and  Monsieur  Gladstone.  He 
should  change  his  valet."  Then  she  gave 
a  cry  and  ran  into  the  shop.  Angelo  fol 
lowed  her. 

"No,  no,"  she  was  saying  to  the  at 
tendant;  "not  that  one — that  is  Jean  de 
Reszke — the  one  in  the  corner,"  and  she 
leaned  over  and  pointed  eagerly. 

The  shopman  handed  her  a  picture. 

[  38  ] 


Beyond  the  Walls 


She  seized  it,  looked  at  it,  and  then 
pressed  it  to  her  bosom. 

"  Look,"  she  cried,  half  laughing,  half 
crying,  "it  is  Juan.  Isn't  he  grand?  See; 
he  is  wearing  the  scarf  I  gave  to  him. 
Look  at  his  silk  stockings  —  how  white 
they  are." 

She  held  the  picture  away  from  her  and 
made  a  courtesy. 

"  Very  fine  we  are  to-day,  Monsieur 
Juan,"  she  said.  "  What  woman  tied  your 
jabot  for  you?" 

She  asked  the  price  of  the  picture. 

"A  lira,  Signora." 

"Too  little,"  she  said,  and  she  put  a 
gold  piece  on  the  counter. 

That  evening  she  was  very  quiet.  About 
nine  o'clock  she  rang  for  the  waiter  and 
asked  him  to  bring  writing  materials.  She 
did  not  write  easily,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  ask  Angelo  the  spelling  of  one  or  two 
simple  words.  When  she  finally  sealed 
and  addressed  her  letter  he  offered  to  post 
it  for  her. 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence,"  she  said. 

[  39] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  It  is  to  my  dressmaker.  I  must  be  get 
ting  ready  for  the  autumn."  Presently, 
she  went  out  and  posted  it  herself. 

They  spent  the  next  two  days  upon 
the  water.  They  floated  from  the  Piazza 
through  the  Grand  Canal,  under  the  iron 
bridge,  to  the  Canal  de  Mestre,  by  the 
side  of  which  lies  the  Ghetto.  They  glided 
over  the  tideless  lagoons  to  Murano;  they 
skirted  the  shores  of  Saint  Lazzaro,  where 
the  white-walled  monastery  stands  among 
the  trees,  and,  best  of  all,  they  took  a 
"  barca,"  and  the  two  rowers  drove  them 
out  against  the  warm  wind  to  the  Lido. 

The  third  day  she  said  to  him,  "  I  have 
a  headache.  The  sun  on  the  water  has 
been  too  much  for  me.  I  shall  sleep  until 
the  evening  ;  then  I  shall  be  well  again. 
You  must  spend  the  day  by  yourself.  It 
will  be  the  first.  Go  out  to  the  Lido  again 
and  tell  me  all  about  it  when  you  return." 

He  demurred,  but  she  said,  "  If  you 
stay  here  you  will  be  coming  in  every 
half-hour  to  ask  if  I  am  better,  and  I  shall 
not  sleep."  So  he  submitted. 

[  4°  ] 


Beyond  the  Walls 


She  called  him  back  as  he  reached  the 
door.  "  Do  not  dare  to  look  at  any  of  the 
women  on  the  beach.  If  you  do  I  shall 
know  it.  I  have  only  to  look  into  your 
eyes." 

He  had  his  hand  upon  the  latch  when 
she  called  again, "  Angelo."  He  came  back 
eagerly. 

"  You  are  sure  that  you  do  not  regret  ? " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  only  regret  the 
years  before  you  came,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  then 
she  put  out  her  arms,  drew  him  toward 
her,  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

"Good-by,"  she  said.  "Do  not  come 
back  if  I  call  again." 

He  went  out.  As  he  was  going  down 
the  stairs  he  heard  her  call  his  name,  and 
stopped,  then  he  remembered  her  injunc 
tion,  and  went  on.  If  he  had  disobeyed, 
who  knows  ? 

He  went  to  the  Lido,  but  the  light 
had  gone  out  of  the  sky,  the  breeze  from 
the  Adriatic  was  cold,  the  band  played 
out  of  tune,  and  his  luncheon  choked 

[4*  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


him.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  sands, 
waiting  until  he  might  go  back  to  Ven 
ice,  where  there  was  sunlight,  where  the 
breeze  was  warm,  where,  in  the  Piazza, 
the  band  played  sweetly  and  the  pigeons 
perched  and  cooed  on  the  carved  statues 
of  the  saints.  At  three  o'clock  he  started  to 
walk  to  the  quay —  the  tram-cars  were  too 
slow.  He  found  his  barcajust  off  the  land 
ing  steps,  and  he  bade  the  men  row  fast. 

"  I  am  very  late,"  he  said. 

He  flung  himself  upon  the  cushions 
and  shut  his  eyes. 

"Pietro,"  he  said  to  the  man  at  the 
after  oar,  "  were  you  ever  in  love  ?  " 

"A  thousand  times,  signore,"  replied 
Pietro,  showing  his  white  teeth. 

"  Is  she  waiting  for  you  ? "  asked  An- 
gelo. 

"I  fear  she  is,  signore." 

"Row  faster,  then,"  said  Angelo;  and 
rising,  he  flung  his  weight  upon  the  oar. 

They  landed  at  the  Piazza,  and  it  was 
only  four  o'clock.  He  did  not  dare  to  go 
home. 


Beyond  the  Walls 


"  She  said  she  should  sleep  until  even 
ing,"  he  thought.  "  If  I  go  home  now  I 
shall  disturb  her." 

He  wandered  about  the  Piazza  looking 
at  the  shop  windows.  He  passed  the  glass- 
makers,  the  jewellers,  and  the  print-shop. 
He  crossed  to  the  other  side  and  walked 
slowly  by  the  cafes  and  the  booksellers. 
Then  he  came  to  the  little  flower-shop. 
In  the  window  were  some  yellow  mi 
mosa  blossoms.  He  went  in  and  bought 
them.  It  was  now  half-past  four.  He 
would  go  to  the  hotel,  but  not  up-stairs. 
Perhaps  the  concierge  could  tell  him  how 
Dolores  was ;  perhaps  he  might  see  Nan 
ette,  her  maid. 

He  went  out  of  the  Piazza,  across  the 
bridge,  and  through  the  lane,  walking  as 
slowly  as  possible.  He  entered  the  court 
yard  of  the  hotel.  The  concierge  stood  in 
the  doorway. 

"  Ah,  signore,"  he  exclaimed, "  the  sig- 
nora  barely  caught  the  train.  She  bade 
me  give  you  this  letter." 

Angelo  took  it  without  a  word,  and 

t  43  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


slowly  opened  it.  It  contained  some  Ital 
ian  money  and  a  scrap  of  paper  on  which 
was  written  : 

"  Forget  me. 

"Dolores" 


[44] 


III.   THE    FOLIES-BERGlLRES 


JLlE  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  a  woman's 
face  framed  in  white  linen. 

"  If  the  geraniums  flower  too  soon,"  he 
said  feebly,  "you  must  pinch  off  the 
blossoms  with  your  fingers  and  —  " 

"Hush,"  said  a  sweet,  low  voice;  and 
he  closed  his  eyes  and  slept  again. 

The  house  surgeon  made  his  rounds  at 
ten  o'clock.  "How  is  your  patient?"  he 
asked  of  the  Sister  of  Mercy  who  sat  at 
the  foot  of  Angelo's  bed. 

"Better,"  she  replied.  "He  spoke  just 
now  of  flowers.  They  all  seem  to  speak 
of  flowers  or  women  when  they  are  con 
valescent." 

"Flowers  and  women  are  the  same 
thing,"  said  the  surgeon  with  a  bow,  and 
he  went  up  to  the  cot. 

"Count  d'Apremont?"  he  said.  An- 
gelo  opened  his  eyes.  "  How  are  you  this 
morning?" 

[  45  ] 


T'he  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  Very  well,"  said  Angelo, "  but  the  ge 
raniums —  " 

"  He  will  do,"  said  the  surgeon  to  the 
nurse.  "  Plenty  of  nourishment  and  the 
same  medicines." 

A  week  afterward  they  let  him  sit  on 
the  balcony  overlooking  the  Campo  San 
Polo.  Sister  Frances  sat  by  him. 

"How  far  is  it  to  Paris?"  he  asked. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  replied,  "but  it 
is  the  chief  city  of  France,  and  to  go  to 
France  one  must  turn  to  the  right.  I 
know  that,  for  last  summer  the  senior 
surgeon  went  to  France,  and  I  saw  him 
go  out  of  the  door  and  turn  to  the  right. 
I  do  not  know  much  about  such  things. 
I  am  religious." 

"Did  you  ever  know  a  man  named 
Juan?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"Juan?  Juan?"  she  said,  reflecting. 
"  Oh,  yes,  the  old  Spanish  gardener  at  the 
convent  in  Turin  was  called  Juan.  He 
gave  me  some  flowers  the  day  I  came 
away  to  begin  my  nursing." 

"The  Juan  that  I  mean  was  not  a  gar- 

[  46  ] 


The  Foh'es-Bergeres 


dener,"  said  Angelo.  "He  was  a  man 
with  broad  shoulders  and  a  thick  neck. 
He  had  black  hair  and  a  smooth  face, 
except  that  he  had  whiskers  just  to  the 
bottom  of  his  ears.  He  wore  a  velvet 
jacket  with  many  buttons,  and  long, 
white  silk  stockings.  He  had  a  scarf  about 
his  waist  and  a  lace  jabot  at  his  throat. 
He  was  a  bull-fighter." 

"  I  know  no  bull-fighters,"  said  Sister 
Frances. 

"  If  a  man  were  to  cut  your  arm  with 
his  knife  because  you  spilled  his  tobacco," 
he  asked  presently,  "would  you  love  him 
for  it?" 

"It  is  time  for  your  medicine,"  said 
Sister  Frances. 

At  the  end  of  another  week  the  sur 
geon  pronounced  him  cured. 

"He  is  as  well  as  he  is  likely  to  be," 
he  said  to  the  nurse,  and  he  tapped  his 
forehead  with  his  fingers  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

Angelo  made  a  bundle  of  his  monk's 
robe  and  sandals,  which  he  tied  up  in  a 

[47] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


large  silk  handkerchief.  Everything  else 
he  told  Sister  Frances  she  might  give 
away.  Of  the  money  which  Dolores  had 
enclosed  in  her  letter  he  kept  a  note  for 
fifty  liras;  the  rest  he  gave  to  Sister 
Frances.  "  For  your  poor,"  he  said. 

"I  shall  have  no  more  poor,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "They  will  all  be  rich;"  and 
she  turned  away  to  hide  her  tears. 

Then  he  shook  hands  with  her  and  with 
the  surgeon,  went  down-stairs,  through 
the  front  door,  and  turned  to  the  right. 
As  he  passed  the  little  balcony  he  looked 
up  and  saw  Sister  Frances.  She  turned  her 
head  away  quickly  and  put  her  hands  to 
her  eyes.  When  he  reached  the  turning 
in  the  narrow  street  he  looked  back.  She 
was  still  upon  the  balcony,  and  she  put 
out  her  arms  toward  him.  He  took  off 
his  hat  and  then  turned  the  corner. 

"  Signore,"  he  said  to  the  first  man  he 
met,  "will  you  kindly  tell  me  the  road 
to  France?" 

The  stranger  looked  at  him,  laughed, 
and  then  walked  away. 

[  48  ] 


The  Fo/ies-Bergeres 


Angelo  went  on.  Presently  he  crossed 
the  canal  by  the  iron  bridge,  and  in  a  few 
moments  he  reached  the  railway  station. 

"  Signore,"  he  asked  of  a  man  in  uni 
form,  "is  this  the  road  to  France?" 

"Yes,  signore,"  replied  the  official;  "a 
train  leaves  for  Turin  and  Paris  in  twenty 
minutes." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Angelo, "  but  I  shall 
walk,"  and  crossing  the  long  trestle  which 
spans  the  lagoon,  he  began  his  journey. 

ii 

IT  was  the  evening  of  the  last  Sunday 
in  September,  and  the  boulevards  were 
thronged.  The  hotels  were  full  of  Amer 
icans,  and  the  favorite  had  won  at  Long- 
champs.  The  bourgeoisie  was  content. 

At  the  restaurant  Cesar,  on  the  Bou 
levard  Poissoniere,  they  dine  early.  At 
half-past  four  Henri,  the  head  waiter, 
shaved  and  changed  his  collar.  At  five, 
Madame  Cesar,  her  gray  hair  arranged  in 
puffs,  put  on  her  lace  cap  with  the  pink 
ribbons  and  took  her  seat  behind  the  little 

[49] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


counter.  At  her  left  hand  was  a  glass  filled 
with  mignonette;  at  her  right  stood  the 
nickel  vase  into  which  the  waiters  cast  the 
pourboires^  to  be  divided  later.  At  a  quarter 
past  five  Cesar  himself  came  down-stairs 
and  arranged,  on  the  table  in  the  centre, 
the  grapes,  the  peaches,  the  melons,  and 
the  green  almonds.  He  stepped  back  and 
regarded  the  effecl: — the  mirrors,  framed 
in  ebony  and  tarnished  gold;  the  red  vel 
vet  seats,  somewhat  worn;  the  linen  on 
the  tables,  white,  but  coarse;  the  shining 
glasses;  the  fruits  on  the  centre-table,  and 
his  wife,  with  the  pink  ribbons,  at  the  end 
of  the  room. 

"Good,"  he  said,  "but  we  need  yel 
low,"  and  he  cut  a  great  melon  in  halves 
and  laid  them  in  a  bed  of  green  leaves. 

At  a  quarter  to  six  Monsieur  Martin, 
the  engineer,  entered.  Madame  Martin 
followed  him.  His  white,  pointed  beard 
was  closely  trimmed,  and  he  wore  a  red 
ribbon  in  his  button-hole.  She  was  faded 
and  dressed  in  black.  They  took  the  table 
in  the  corner,  at  the  left  of  the  door. 

[  so] 


The  Fo/ies-Bergeres 


"  Bon  jour ,  ma  dame;  bon  jour,  monsieur" 
said  Madame  Cesar.  They  read  the  menu 
carefully,  then  monsieur  said,  in  a  loud  and 
confident  voice,  "  Sole  f rite  et  rump  steak" 

"  As  usual,"  whispered  Cesar  to  Henri, 
and  the  fish  was  served  almost  instantly. 

The  door  opened  slowly  and  Angelo 
came  in.  He  carried  a  bundle  in  a  silk 
handkerchief  and  his  clothes  were  worn 
and  travel-stained.  He  took  off  his  hat 
and  bowed  to  Madame  behind  the  coun 
ter,  to  the  Martins,  and  to  Cesar. 

"  If  it  is  not  too  dear,"  he  said  to  the 
latter,  "I  should  like  some  soup  and  a 
piece  of  bread." 

"  It  will  be  one  franc,  monsieur." 

Angelo  hesitated.  Then  Madame  Ce 
sar  coughed  and  said,  "Monsieur,  soup 
and  bread  cost  fifty  centimes  ;  a  franc  in 
cludes  butter." 

Angelo  seated  himself  and  put  his 
bundle  under  his  chair. 

"Be  pleased  to  omit  the  butter,"  he  said. 

Henri  served  him  with  petite  marmlte 
and  a  long  loaf  of  bread. 

[  51  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"Did  you  ever  see  such  eyes?"  whis 
pered  Madame  Cesar  to  her  husband.  "  I 
wonder  what  he  has  in  his  bundle  ? " 

"Silverware,"  said  Cesar. 

"You  are  stupid,"  she  replied.  "No 
thief  ever  had  such  eyes." 

"A  few  more  pairs  like  them  would 
ruin  us,"  said  her  husband.  "You  cut  the 
price  in  two.  If  a  blind  man  comes  in 
perhaps  you  will  double  it." 

"Go  speak  to  him,"  said  madame. 
"Find  out  something  about  him.  It  is 
easy  to  see  that  he  is  a  gentleman  and  that 
he  is  ill." 

By  this  time  many  of  the  tables  were 
occupied.  Cesar  made  the  rounds ;  a  bow 
to  one,  a  joke  with  another,  a  slight  ser 
vice  to  a  third.  At  length  he  came  to 
Angelo,  who  had  emptied  the  tureen  and 
was  now  eating  the  last  of  the  bread. 

"  Will  not  monsieur  have  a  little  more 
of  the  soup  ? "  asked  Cesar. 

"I  should  like  it,"  replied  Angelo, 
"but  I  have  very  little  money." 

"When  one  orders  soup,"  said  Cesar, 


Folies-Bergeres 


"he  is  entitled  to  all  that  he  wishes.  It 
is  the  rule  of  the  house." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Angelo,  "  I  will 
have  some  more  ;  and  bread,  also,  if  it  is 
permitted." 

"Monsieur  is  a  traveller?"  ventured 
Cesar. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Angelo.  "  I  came  from 
Venice  this  evening." 

"  From  Venice  ?  Then  you  arrived  by 
the  express  at  five  o'clock,  at  the  Gare 
de  Lyon  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Angelo  ;  "  I  walked." 

"  Yes,  from  the  station  ? " 

"  No,  from  Venice." 

"Monsieur  !"  exclaimed  Cesar,  "that 
is  more  than  six  hundred  miles." 

"Yes,"  said  Angelo,  "but  I  left  Ven 
ice  the  last  day  of  July.  I  came  to  see  a 
woman  —  " 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Cesar, "  many  young 
men  come  to  Paris  for  that  purpose." 

"Her  name  is  Dolores,"  continued 
Angelo.  "  Do  you  know  where  I  can  find 
her?" 

[  53  ] 


Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"She  must  be  Spanish,"  said  Cesar. 
"Is  she  an  artiste,  a  singer,  an  aclress?" 

"She  is  a  dancer,"  replied  Angelo. 

"  I  do  not  think  she  comes  here,"  said 
Cesar.  "  Most  of  my  patrons  are  serious. 
There  is  Monsieur  Martin,  the  celebra 
ted  engineer,  at  the  table  in  the  corner. 
Madame  is  with  him.  They  have  dined 
here  for  ten  years  at  a  quarter  to  six. 
They  read  the  menu  from  hors-d'oeuvres 
to  cheese  and  then  he  orders  fried  sole 
and  rump  steak.  We  have  those  dishes 
ready  for  him  at  a  quarter  to  six.  On  his 
last  name-day  he  ordered  langouste  and 
vo/-au-venf  a  la  financiere,  but  before 
Henri  reached  the  door  monsieur  called 
him  back.  'Henri,'  he  said,  'on  second 
thought,  I  will  have  fried  sole  and  rump 
steak.'  He  will  know  nothing  of  your 
dancer.  His  habits  are  formed. 

"The  lady  at  the  next  table,"  he  con-, 
tinued,  "the  large  lady  with  the  blue  hat 
and  the  slight  moustache,  might  doubt 
less  have  helped  us  twenty  years  ago,  when 
she  led  the  ballet  at  the  Grand  Opera, 

[  54] 


The  Folies-Bergeres 


but  she  has  ceased  to  be  of  the  world. 
She  is  a  compatriot  of  mine.  She  comes 
from  Marseilles.  She  dines  here  each  Fri 
day  and  Sunday.  We  serve  bouillabaisse 
on  Friday,  and  I  always  keep  some  over 
for  Sunday.  Bouillabaisse  is  much  better, 
monsieur,  at  its  second  cooking." 

He  looked  slowly  about  the  room. 

"If  Monsieur  Vallon  were  here  —  ah, 
there  he  is,  in  the  far  corner.  He  is  of 
the  press.  He  knows  every  one." 

He  went  over  and  spoke  to  a  small  man 
who,  between  the  courses  of  his  dinner, 
was  correcting  proofs.  They  evidently  had 
their  joke  together,  for  Cesar  came  back 
smiling. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said,  "it  seems  that 
your  friend  is  famous.  She  dances  at  the 
Folies-Bergeres.  She  has  an  apartment  on 
the  avenue  Friedland.  Each  fine  day  she 
drives  a  bay  cob  and  a  morning  cart  in 
the  Bois.  She  drinks  two  glasses  of  warm 
milk  at  the  Pre  Catelan,  and  lunches  at 
the  Madrid.  Her  appetite  is  good.  In 
the  afternoon  she  drives  in  a  viftoria  or  a 

[  55  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


brougham,  according  to  the  weather.  Her 
servants  are  English.  They  wear  dark 
green  and  no  rosettes.  They  are  correctly 
dressed  and  do  not  attempt  to  speak 
French.  Her  brougham  horses  were  given 
her  by  an  English  milord.  They  are  very 
taking,  but  the  nigh  one  is  unsound.  Af 
ter  she  has  danced  in  the  evening  she  has 
supper  at  Paillard's.  She  dances  at  half- 
past  nine.  Her  maid  is  a  Frenchwoman, 
named  Nanette.  On  Tuesdays  and  Satur 
days  madame  has  a  masseuse  for  an  hour. 
On  Fridays  she  confesses  at  the  Made 
leine.  Her  costumes  for  the  stage  are 
made  in  Madrid,  those  for  the  carriage 
and  the  house  she  procures  from  Raud- 
nitz  and  Jeanne  Hallee,  and  her  morning 
gowns  are  sent  to  her  from  London. 
Hellstern  makes  her  slippers  and  he  tries 
them  on  four  times.  Next  winter  she 
dances  in  St.  Petersburg,  and  in  the 
spring  she  goes  to  America.  At  the 
Folies-Bergeres  she  receives  two  thou 
sand  francs  each  night  and  half  the  gross 
receipts  of  each  Sunday.  She  keeps  an 

[  56  ] 


'The  Folies-Bergeres 


account  at  the  Credit  Lyonnais.  Mon 
sieur  Vallon  makes  you  his  compliments 
and  regrets  that  he  cannot  give  you  more 
definite  information." 

"  And  Juan  ? "  asked  Angelo.  "  Did  he 
say  nothing  of  a  bull-fighter  called  Juan  ? " 

Cesar  became  interested  in  the  salt 
cellar. 

"  Did  he  speak  of  Juan  ? "  Angelo  asked 
again. 

Cesar  blushed  and  drummed  upon  the 
table  with  his  fingers.  Then  he  leaned 
over  and  whispered,  "Monsieur  Vallon's 
advice  is  that  you  return  to  Venice." 

in 

ANGELO  paid  for  his  dinner  and  gave 
Henri  two  sous  as  a  pourboire.  Then,  with 
his  bundle  in  his  hand,  he  bowed  to  Ma 
dame  Cesar. 

"  Good  night,  monsieur,"  she  said,  and 
she  followed  him  with  her  eyes  to  the  door. 

Cesar  gave  him  his  route. 

"The  first  turn  to  the  right,  monsieur, 
then  the  third  street  is  the  rue  Richer. 

[  57  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


Turn  to  the  right  again  and  you  will  come 
to  the  Folies-Bergeres." 

The  rue  Richer  was  crowded  with 
cabs.  Their  lamps  made  two  lines  of 
lights  so  long  that  they  narrowed  in  the 
distance.  Over  the  door  of  the  theatre, 
traced  in  gas-jets,  blazed  the  word  "Do 
lores." 

Angelo  entered  the  vestibule.  Two 
men  in  evening  dress  sat  within  the  rail 
ing  of  the  bureau,  and  a  member  of  the 
municipal  police  stood  by  the  green  door 
at  the  left,  his  helmet,  breastplate,  and 
jack-boots  glittering  in  the  gas-light. 

"Your  ticket,  if  you  please,  monsieur," 
said  the  cashier. 

"I  have  come  to  see  Dolores,"  said 
Angelo. 

"Doubtless,"  rejoined  the  cashier, 
"but  have  you  a  place?  You  are  just  in 
time." 

"No,"  replied  Angelo,  "I  have  no 
place.  I  do  not  understand  these  matters 
very  well,  monsieur.  I  have  not  been  of 
the  world  long.  I  arrived  in  Paris  only 

[  58  ] 


The  Folies-Bergeres 


this  evening.  I  came  from  Venice,  mon 
sieur.  Before  that  I  was  in  Rome.  The 
marionettes  in  Rome  are  very  fine,  mon 
sieur.  They  walk  and  dance,  and  the  tall 
one  in  the  bluejacket  smokes  a  cigarette. 
Dolores  said  that  they  were  much  more 
amusing  than  the  Coliseum,  but  that,  I 
believe,  is  very  fine  also.  In  Venice  I  was 
quite  ill,  monsieur.  Dolores  left  me  there. 
She  was  obliged  to  come  to  Paris  to  see 
her  dressmaker  and  —  " 

"  Excuse  me,  monsieur,"  said  the  cash 
ier,  "but  if  you  have  no  ticket  you  are 
too  late.  All  the  places  are  taken.  You 
may  stand  in  the  upper  balcony,  but  it 
is  very  crowded.  The  admission  is  two 
francs." 

Angelo  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said,  after  counting 
his  money,  "  I  have  but  one  franc  and 
eighty  centimes." 

"Take  it  and  get  rid  of  him,"  whis 
pered  the  assistant,  who  was  adding  up 
the  night's  receipts;  and  the  cashier 
handed  Angelo  a  ticket. 

[  59  ] 


T'he  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


He  went  up-stairs,  crossed  the  glass- 
roofed  garden  where  the  palm  trees  are, 
then  up  another  flight,  and  came  to  the 
second  balcony. 

It  was  crowded  with  workmen  in  their 
Sunday  clothes,  with  men  from  the  clubs, 
with  women  from  the  streets.  The  heat 
was  intense  and  the  foul  air  reeked  with 
the  scent  of  patchouly.  The  slope  of  the 
balcony  was  very  abrupt,  and  thanks  to 
his  height,  Angelo  could  see  the  stage 
and  the  two  loges  next  to  the  proscenium 
arch.  The  drop-curtain  was  down  and  the 
sign  " Entre-affe"  was  posted. 

"Where  is  Dolores?"  asked  Angelo. 

A  girl  who  stood  next  to  him  looked 
at  his  bundle,  laughed,  and  said,  "She's 
having  a  bottle  with  Juan  in  her  dress 
ing-room."  Then  she  looked  in  his  face 
and  said,  "Pardon,  monsieur,  I  thought 
you  were  one  of  us,  but  I  see  that  I  was 
stupid." 

She  was  silent  a  moment  and  then  she 
spoke  again:  "You  may  stand  in  front  of 
me  if  you  wish.  I  have  seen  her  twice 

[  60] 


The  Fo/ies-Bergeres 


already.  I  come  because  the  men  come. 
She  has  the  trick.  She  is  no  better  looking 
than  some  of  us,  and  the  way  in  which 
she  wears  her  hair,  with  little  hooks  over 
her  ears,  is  very  bad,  but  she  is  the  mode, 
and  then  one  has  said  it.  The  mode  is  a 
strange  thing,  monsieur.  It  dfepends  upon 
trifles.  Liane,  who  lives  with  me,  went 
without  her  dinner  for  a  month  and  then 
bought  a  hat  in  the  rue  de  la  Paix.  She 
is  down  there  in  the  stalls  with  a  head 
clerk  from  the  Bon  Marche,  and  I  am  up 
here  in  the  second  balcony.  But,"  she 
said  with  a  laugh,  "  I  had  the  thirty 
dinners,  and  they  are  better  than  a  head 
clerk." 

"You  perceive,  monsieur,"  she  added, 
"  that  with  such  principles  I  shall  never 
be  the  mode." 

"Are  you  cold?"  she  asked  suddenly. 
"You  are  shivering." 

"No,"  he  replied.  "But  Dolores, —  is 
she  not  coming?" 

Just  then  the  prompter  gave  the  three 
spats  and  the  members  of  the  orchestra 

[  6.   ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


came  from  under  the  stage  and  took  their 
seats.  Angelo  could  see  a  man  with  a 
blond  beard  enter  the  loge  on  the  left. 
Presently  a  man  seated  himself  in  the  loge 
on  the  right.  He  wore  a  dinner-jacket,  a 
folded  collar,  cut  very  low  in  front,  and 
a  red  cravat.  He  was  dark,  with  closely 
cut  hair,  and  he  was  continually  rolling 
cigarettes  which  he  lighted  and  then 
threw  away. 

"Look,"  said  Angelo's  neighbor; 
"there  they  are,  the  English  milord  and 
Juan.  They  say  milord  has  castles  and 
yachts  and  jewels  and  all  such  things, 
and  poor  old  Juan  has  nothing  but  his 
smile  and  his  courage  and  his  cigarettes, 
and  Dolores  sides  with  Juan.  That  is 
eccentric,  and  it  makes  her  a  la  mode." 

The  leader  tapped  with  his  baton  and 
the  music  began;  a  picked  string  here,  a 
tap  of  the  kettle-drums  there,  a  bleat 
from  the  oboe,  a  twinkle  from  the  clari 
onets,  a  blare  from  the  trombones,  a  wave 
of  the  white  gloves,  a  burst  of  concerted 
sound,  and  the  curtain  went  slowly  up. 


'The  Folies-Bergeres 


The  stage  was  a  blank.  The  orchestra 
glided  into  the  "  Spanish  Dances,"  and 
from  the  wings  stepped  Dolores. 

She  was  dressed  in  black.  Her  bodice, 
her  skirts,  her  stockings,  all  were  black. 
So  small  and  perfectly  shaped  were  her 
feet  that  she  had  the  audacity  to  wear 
white  slippers;  and  over  her  left  ear  rested 
the  stem  of  a  crimson  rose. 

She  walked  slowly  down  the  stage,  de 
mure,  her  eyes  cast  down.  She  came  into 
the  glow  of  the  foot-lights,  stopped,  and 
cast  a  glance  toward  the  box  on  the  right. 
Then  she  went  half-way  up  the  stage 
again,  and  the  orchestra  burst  into  full 
melody. 

She  stood  motionless  a  moment,  and 
then  her  body  began  to  sway.  The  time 
was  so  exquisitely  marked  that  the  au 
dience  found  itself  swaying  in  unison. 
There  was  a  tap  of  the  kettle-drums,  a 
change  of  rhythm,  and  she  came  whirl 
ing  down  the  stage,  a  cloud  of  black  tulle 
and  a  suggestion  of  white  linen.  The 
music  ended  with  a  crash  and  she  stopped 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


suddenly,  her  arms  extended,  her  bosom 
heaving.  For  a  moment  the  audience 
was  as  silent  as  the  throng  at  St.  Peter's 
when  the  Host  is  elevated,  or  as  they 
who,  hat  in  hand,  file  past  the  Sistine 
Madonna.  Then  a  man  in  the  third  row 
stood  up  and  waved  his  hat.  Immediately 
the  house  rose,  men  and  women.  They 
clapped  their  hands,  they  shouted,  they 
flung  flowers,  cigarettes,  hats,  gloves, 
coins  upon  the  stage;  and  she,  her  cheeks 
burning,  her  eyes  glowing,  took  the  red 
rose  from  her  hair,  put  it  to  her  lips,  and 
then  flung  it  into  the  loge  on  the  right. 
Juan  caught  it,  and  the  curtain  fell. 

"You  are  not  going?"  said  the  girl  to 
Angelo.  "  She  dances  in  a  moment.  That 
was  merely  her  appearance." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  smile  so  sad 
that  she  felt  the  tears  coming  to  her  eyes 
and  marvelled  at  herself. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  am  going.  I  have 
seen  her  once  more.  Why  should  I  stay? 
I  thank  you,  mademoiselle,  for  your  kind 
ness.  Good  night." 


'The  Folies-Bergeres 


He  made  his  way  slowly  through  the 
crowd  to  the  stairs.  She  followed  him 
with  her  eyes  and  suddenly  pushed  after 
him  and  touched  his  shoulder. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  answered. 

She  hesitated,  and  then  said,  "You 
have  money?" 

"  I  have  nothing,"  he  replied. 

"Good!"  she  exclaimed;  "I  am  rich, 
if  I  am  not  the  mode.  I  have  forty  francs. 
I  can  afford  to  be  respectable  for  a  week. 
Come." 

She  put  her  arm  through  his,  and  half 
supporting  him,  she  led  him  out  into  the 
streets. 


[65] 


IV.    THE    ABBOT 

A  HE  long,  hot  summer  passed  slowly 
at  La  Trappe;  and  when  winter  came 
it  found  the  monastery  unchanged,  save 
that  the  graves  of  the  monks  had  grown 
a  little  deeper  and  the  Abbot  had  grown 
much  older.  All  during  the  year  he  had 
worked  with  the  feverish  energy  of  a 
man  who  has  a  task  to  accomplish  and 
finds  his  time  short.  His  candle  burned 
late  every  night,  and  with  the  strange 
freemasonry  that  prevails  in  all  commu 
nities  condemned  to  silence,  the  monks 
asked  one  another,  "What  has  befallen 
the  Abbot?" 

One  night  in  December  the  rain  which 
had  been  steadily  falling  turned  to  snow, 
and  in  the  morning,  when  the  chapter 
went  to  the  chapel  at  seven  o'clock  for 
"  prime,"  the  terrace  by  the  fountain  was 
covered  with  feathery  flakes  an  inch  deep. 
Such  a  thing  had  not  been  seen  in  Algeria 
for  years.  As  the  long  file  of  brown-robed 
[66] 


The  Abbot 

monks  passed  through  the  courtyard,  one 
of  them,  a  black-bearded  Belgian,  broke 
from  the  line,  and  flinging  himself  down 
rolled  in  the  snow. 

"My  God,"  he  cried,  "see  the  snow, 
the  snow  that  falls  in  Brussels.  I  made  a 
statue  of  it  in  the  park  and  won  a  prize. 
Marie  came  to  see  it.  She  said  — " 

Brother  Ambrose  whispered  in  his  ear, 
and  he  rose  and  sullenly  resumed  his  place 
in  the  line. 

When  Brother  Ambrose  reported  this 
occurrence  to  the  Abbot  it  was  with  fear 
and  trembling.  He  remembered  that  An- 
gelo  had  spoken  in  reply  to  a  woman  and 
had  disappeared,  "to  work  his  penance," 
as  the  Abbot  had  said  the  next  day.  But 
Brother  Pierre's  offence  had  been  gratui 
tous;  no  one  had  spoken  to  him,  and  the 
whole  household  had  heard  him  utter  a 
woman's  name.  It  was  not  merely  an  of 
fence,  it  was  a  scandal. 

The  Abbot  listened  calmly  to  the  re 
port,  and  then  went  to  his  desk  and  took 
out  of  it  the  red  book  with  the  lock. 


Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"Marie  was  the  name  he  spoke,  was 
it  not  ? "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  father,"  replied  Brother  Am 
brose. 

The  Abbot  opened  the  book,  turned 
several  leaves,  ran  his  finger  down  a  page, 
paused,  and  then  locked  the  book  and  put 
it  back  in  the  desk. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said  finally,  "  I  fear 
that  more  men  turn  monks,  for_  the  love,, 
of  a  woman  than  loTThe  |pve  _Q£ ..God." 

Brother  Ambrose  drew  his  hand  across 
his  eyes  and  stood  silent. 

The  Abbot  paced  the  little  room,  his 
hands  behind  his  back. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  "who  resusci 
tated  our  order?  Armand  de  Ranee.  He 
was  a  brave  man  who  stood  well  with 
his  king.  He  loved  the  Duchess  Rohan- 
Montbazon,  and  she  loved  him.  One  day 
the  king  sent  him  into  Germany  on  a 
mission.  The  duchess  begged  him  not  to 
leave  her;  but  he  said,  'The  king  wills 
it,  and  my  honor  compels  me.'  And  she 
said,  'Thy  honor  is  my  honor,'  and  kissed 

[  68  ] 


The  Abbot 

him,  and  he  rode  away.  When  in  a  month 
he  returned  to  Paris,  successful  in  his  mis 
sion,  he  rode  gayly  to  her  house,  and  get 
ting  off  his  horse,  ran  past  the  domestics, 
up  the  stairs  to  her  room,  and  found  her 
there,  dead,  upon  a  bier,  the  candles  burn 
ing.  Had  she  lived,  there  would  have  been 
no  La  Trappe.  You  took  the  vows,  my 
friend,  because  forty  years  ago  a  little 
flaxen-haired  girl  in  Normandy  played 
you  false.  Shall  I  tell  you  her  name  ?  It 
is  all  in  the  red  book,  yonder." 

"No,"  cried  brother  Ambrose,  "do 
not  speak  it.  I  hear  it  in  my  dreams;  I 
hear  it  continually  by  day  —  in  the  pray 
ers — in  the  chants — in  the  gospel  and 
epistle — in  every  breeze  that  blows.  Do 
not  speak  it." 

"Forgive  me,"  said  the  Abbot.  "I 
hoped  that  forty  years  had  brought  you 
peace." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  the 
Abbot  spoke  again. 

"You  remember,"  he  said,  "when  I 
came  to  La  Trappe,  do  you  not  ? " 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"Yes,"  replied  Brother  Ambrose,  "I 
let  you  in  at  the  gate.  You  rode  a  black 
horse  and  wore  an  officer's  uniform.  You 
carried  Angelo,  who  was  a  baby  then,  in 
your  arms.  You  gave  him  to  me,  and  I 
brought  him  up  on  goat's  milk.  You  told 
me  that  he  was  the  son  of  an  officer  who 
had  died  in  the  desert." 

"  I  lied  to  you,"  said  the  Abbot. 

"I  thought  so  at  the  time,"  said  Bro 
ther  Ambrose. 

"  I  wrote  the  same  lie  in  the  red  book," 
added  the  Abbot. 

Brother  Ambrose  shook  his  head 
gravely. 

"What  is  more,"  said  the  Abbot,  "on 
the  day  that  Angelo  helped  you  in  the 
guest-room,  I  read  the  lie  to  him." 

"  You  disowned  him? "  gasped  Brother 
Ambrose. 

"Yes,  God  help  me,"  said  the  Abbot, 
"  I  disowned  my  son." 

"  You  perceive,"  he  added, "  what  man 
ner  of  man  your  Abbot  is." 

"  I  presume,"  suggested  Brother  Am- 

[  70  ] 


The  Abbot 

brose,  faintly,  "you  thought  it  for  the 
best?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Abbot,  bitterly,  "  I 
have  tried  that  salve,  but  it  does  not  heal. 
A  lie  is  never  for  the  best.  What  right 
had  I,  because  the  world  had  gone  wrong 
with  me,  to  teach  my  son  that  the  grave 
is  the  only  happiness  that  comes  to  man? 
What  right  had  I  to  tell  him  he  was 
fatherless  and  had  nothing  to  link  him 
with  the  world?  My  grief  made  me  self 
ish.  I  forgot  all  the  joys  of  living;  I  saw 
only  the  face  of  a  girl  lying  dead  in  the 
little  house  in  Biskra.  I  often  see  it,  and 
I  often  hear  her  sweet  voice  asking, 
'Where  is  my  son,  for  whom  I  died?' 
And  the  only  answer  I  can  make  is,  'I 
disowned  him  and  he  went  away.'  God 
came  to  me  in  the  garden  the  last  night 
that  Angelo  was  here,  and  I  went  to  the 
chapel  cell  to  make  confession;  but  I  was 
too  late;  the  lock  was  broken  and  my  son 
was  a  wanderer.  He  had  no  money,  no 
knowledge  of  the  world,  no  friends.  That 
was  almost  a  year  ago,  and  I  have  heard 

[71  ] 


<The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


no  word  of  him.  Is  he  ill,  is  he  homeless, 
is  he  famishing,  or  is  he  with  his  mother 
in  heaven  ?  If  so,  what  must  they  two  think 
of  the  Holy  Abbot  of  La  Trappe?  What 
do  you  think  of  him?  You  came  to  me 
to-night  to  ask  me  to  fix  a  penance  for 
Brother  Pierre.  His  offence  is  that  he 
spoke  the  name  of  the  woman  who  loved 
him  years  ago.  He  simply  spoke  aloud 
what  you  and  I  whisper  every  hour  of 
the  day.  It  is  true  the  monastery  has  its 
rules,  but  who  am  I  that  I  should  enforce 
them?  I  can  only  say,  God  bless  him." 

"Amen,"  said  Brother  Ambrose. 

"To-morrow,"  resumed  the  Abbot, 
"is  Christmas  Day.  I  wish  the  discipline 
to  be  somewhat  relaxed.  Serve  out  fresh 
straw  for  the  chapter  and  let  them  sit  in 
the  refectory  for  a  half-hour  after  dinner. 
You  will  be  celebrant  at  the  high  mass." 

"  I  ! "  exclaimed  Brother  Ambrose, 
"Why  not  you?" 

"Because,"  said  the  Abbot,  "I  shall 
not  be  here.  This  is  my  last  day  at  La 
Trappe." 

[  72  ] 


The  Abbot 

Brother  Ambrose  staggered  back 
against  the  wall. 

The  Abbot  took  from  his  desk  a  letter. 

"  I  have  written  fully  to  the  Superior," 
he  said,  "and  I  wish  that  you  would  post 
this  after  I  am  gone.  The  accounts  of  the 
chapter  are  made  up  to  this  morning. 
We  have  had  a  very  good  year.  Here 
are  my  keys,"  and  he  held  them  out  to 
Brother  Ambrose,  who  stood  motionless. 

The  Abbot  looked  at  him  a  moment, 
and  then  placed  the  keys  upon  the  desk. 

"  I  have  ordered  a  carriage  from  Al 
giers  to  be  at  the  gate  at  eleven  o'clock," 
he  continued.  "I  shall  go  out  as  I  am, 
but  in  the  guest-room  I  shall  leave  my 
robe  and  shall  put  on  ordinary  dress, 
which  will  be  brought  me  in  the  car 
riage.  I  wish  that  you  would  keep  my 
rosary  and  crucifix,  as  a  remembrance.  I 
shall  remain  in  Algiers  only  long  enough 
to  make  some  inquiries,  and  shall  then  go 
wherever  it  seems  best.  If  it  should  be 
necessary  to  communicate  with  me,  the 
Superior  has  an  address.  By  the  way,  do 

[73  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


you  know  my  name?  I  am  Count  Charles 
Fran£ois  d'Apremont.  A  good  name  till 
I  soiled  it." 

Just  then  the  great  bell  at  the  gate 
clanged. 

The  Abbot  started.  "The  carriage!" 
he  exclaimed.  "I  thought  it  was  earlier. 
Go  and  see." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Brother  Ambrose, 
starting  from  the  wall  and  placing  him 
self  against  the  door.  "You  must  not  go. 
You  shall  not  go." 

"  Silence,"  said  the  Abbot,  sternly. 
"  Remember  that  until  I  have  passed 
the  gate  I  am  the  Abbot  of  La  Trappe. 
Afterwards,"  he  added  gently,  "  I  shall  be 
nothing  but  an  old  man  seeking  his  son." 

Brother  Ambrose  bowed  his  head  and 
went  slowly  out. 

The  Abbot  arranged  the  books  and 
papers  in  his  desk  with  great  care,  then 
he  turned  the  key  and  left  it  in  the  lock. 
He  glanced  about  the  little  room  he  was 
so  soon  to  leave.  Its  whitewashed  walls 
and  stone  floor  were  dimly  lighted  by 

[74] 


The  Abbot 

the  candle.  Its  sole  furnishings  were  the 
desk,  a  single  chair,  the  coffin  bed  in  the 
corner,  and  near  the  door  a  bench,  upon 
which  was  a  basin  and  a  water-pitcher  of 
red  clay.  It  was  all  hideously  clean  and 
bare,  but  still  it  had  been  a  home.  The 
Abbot  marvelled  at  the  reluctance  with 
which  he  quitted  it. 

The  door  opened  slowly,  and  Brother 
Ambrose  whispered,  "It  was  the  car 
riage.  I  bade  the  coachman  wait  a  little 
distance  down  the  road." 

"  Good,"  said  the  Abbot.  "  I  am  ready." 

At  the  door  he  turned  and  waved  his 
hand. 

"Adieu,  little  chamber,"  he  said,  and 
then  he  went  out,  leaving  the  candle 
burning. 

The  two  old  men  went  slowly  through 
the  courtyard.  The  rain  had  ceased,  and 
the  sky  was  filled  with  broken  clouds 
swept  toward  the  Great  Desert  by  the 
wind. 

At  the  gate  the  Abbot  stopped  and 
fumbled  at  his  girdle. 

[75  ] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  Here,"  he  said,  "  take  this  before  I 
go  out,"  and  he  thrust  his  rosary  into 
Brother  Ambrose's  hand. 

"Now  open  the  gate." 

Just  then  a  faint  noise  came  from  the 
dark  shadow  of  the  eucalyptus  trees. 
Some  one  was  coming.  They  could  hear 
him  splashing  through  the  pools  of  water 
that  lay  upon  the  rain-drenched  road. 
The  moon  shone  out  from  between  the 
edges  of  the  clouds,  and  the  Abbot  saw 
the  figure  of  a  man  approaching.  It  came 
on  slowly,  and  the  Abbot  and  Brother 
Ambrose  stepped  behind  the  great  stone 
gate-post.  The  footsteps  came  close  up 
to  the  gate,  then  stopped;  a  pale,  drawn 
face  was  thrust  between  the  bars  and  a 
faint  voice  whispered,  "  Open." 

The  Abbot  turned  white  and  fell  to 
trembling.  He  did  not  speak  while  Bro 
ther  Ambrose  was  busy  with  the  lock. 
But  when,  a  moment  later,  he  flung  his 
arms  about  his  son,  Brother  Ambrose 
heard  him  whisper  the  one  word, 
"Miriam." 

[  76  ] 


T/ie  Abbot 

Angelo  did  not  notice  it,  nor  did  he 
seem  to  see  the  two  old  men.  He  breathed 
sobbingly,  as  if  he  had  been  running. 

"  Quick ! "  he  gasped,  throwing  himself 
against  the  gate,  "shut  it  and  keep  it 
out!" 

"What?"  asked  Brother  Ambrose. 

"The  world,"  said  Angelo ;  "it  is  pur 
suing  me." 

They  shut  the  gate  and  locked  it. 

Angelo  gazed  about  him  as  if  in  a 
dream.  He  had  resumed  his  monk's  robe, 
and  it  was  wet  and  splashed  with  mire  to 
the  waist.  He  was  so  tired  and  weak  that 
he  swayed  as  he  stood. 

"The  geraniums;"  he  said  finally,  and 
he  started  toward  the  garden. 

The  Abbot  put  his  arm  about  his  son's 
waist,  and  they  crossed  the  courtyard 
and  went  down  the  grass  walk  together. 
When  they  came  to  the  geraniums  they 
found  nothing  but  long  rows  of  brown 
stalks,  cut  back  for  the  winter.  In  the 
trenches  between  the  rows  the  water  lay 
in  sullen  pools.  Angelo  stood  silent  for 

[77] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


a  time,  and  then  he  said, "  It  must  be  win 
ter.  What  has  become  of  the  summer?" 

"  It  has  gone,"  replied  the  Abbot,  sadly, 
"but,"  he  added,  "it  will  come  again." 

They  went  slowly  up  the  grass  walk, 
neither  of  them  speaking. 

As  they  reached  the  Abbot's  chamber 
the  moon  shone  out  full  and  clear.  The 
Abbot  paused  on  the  threshold. 

"Look,  my  son,"  he  said,  and  he 
pointed  to  the  cross  on  the  chapel  roof. 
"  For  those  who  are  weary  and  heavy- 
laden  there  alone  is  peace." 

They  entered  the  little  chamber,  and 
the  Abbot  closed  the  door. 

Brother  Ambrose,  who  had  followed 
them  afar  off,  took  his  seat  on  a  bench  in 
the  cloisters,  within  call,  and  waited. 

In  half  an  hour  the  Abbot  came  out 
and  called  him  softly. 

He  went  up  to  the  door. 

"Hush,"  whispered  the  Abbot,  "he is 
sleeping.  Is  the  carriage  still  waiting?" 

"Yes,  Father,"  replied  Brother  Am 
brose. 

[78  ] 


The  Abbot 

"  Pay  the  coachman  a  double  fare  and 
send  him  away,"  said  the  Abbot. 

"And  the  clothes  in  the  carriage?" 
asked  Brother  Ambrose. 

The  Abbot  hesitated.  "You  may  give 
them  to  the  coachman,  also,"  he  said 
finally. 

"Thank  God,"  said  Brother  Ambrose. 
"Shall  I  celebrate  the  mass  to-morrow?" 

"No,"  said  the  Abbot. 

"Then  you  had  better  take  this,  Fa 
ther,"  said  Brother  Ambrose,  and  he 
handed  the  Abbot  his  rosary. 

"Good  night,"  said  the  Abbot. 

"Good  night,  Father,"  said  Brother 
Ambrose. 

The  clock  over  the  refeclory  door 
struck  twelve. 

It  was  Christmas  morning. 


[79] 


TROT,    TROT 
TO    MARKET 


TROT,    TROT 
TO    MARKET 


WHEN  the  Earl  of  Vauxhall  left  the 
smoking-room  of  the  Celibates  Club  (he 
had  been  divorced  many  years  and  was 
theoretically  eligible),  he  was  followed 
by  laughter  and  clapping  of  hands.  A  man 
of  three  score  and  ten,  he  had  told  a  story 
that  may  not  be  told  here.  There  were 
French  phrases  scattered  through  it  at 
which  the  men  who  did  not  know  French 
laughed,  and  at  which  those  who  did 
shifted  uneasily  in  their  chairs  and  won 
dered  why  they  were  there.  A  few  tooth 
less  skeletons  in  fur  coats,  who  sat  about 
the  fire,  cackled  and  winked  and  nudged 
each  other  and,  dying,  saluted  him. 

When  the  earl  reached  the  lobby  he 
spoke  to  the  porter. 

"  Shaw,"  he  asked,  "is  there  a  note  for 
me  ?  "  and  while  Shaw  was  searching 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


among  the  post-boxes,  the  earl  took  oc 
casion  to  stagger,  to  clutch  at  his  collar, 
to  collapse  upon  the  porter's  seat,  and 
thence  to  slide  to  the  floor  and  lie  still : 
a  heap  of  fur  coat,  top  hat,  white  gloves, 
patent  leather,  and  dead  clay. 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  said  Shaw,  turning, 
"here  is—" 

Colonel  Mellish,  who  just  then  came 
into  the  club,  was  the  first  to  reach  the 
prostrate  nobleman.  The  colonel  had  seen 
many  things  and  was  not  easily  rattled. 
He  raised  the  peer's  head  and  loosened 
his  cravat. 

"  Shaw,"  asked  the  colonel  in  a  low 
voice,  "what  is  it,  —  apoplexy  or  the 
booze  ? " 

"  I  'm  sure,  sir,  I  can't  say,"  gasped 
Shaw.  "  It  might  be  either,  sir.  His  lord 
ship  has  been  here  since  luncheon  wait 
ing  for  a  note  which  just  came,  sir." 

"Have  you  it?"  asked  the  colonel. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Shaw,  and  he  held  out 
a  dainty  white  envelope. 

"  Better  hold  onto  it,"  said  the  colonel, 

[  84] 


Trot,  Trot  to  Market 


"it  is  probably  not  from  the  Bishop  of 
London." 

Just  then  a  man  came  into  the  lobby. 
The  colonel  looked  up. 

"Ah,  Dr.  Hardy,"  he  said,  "here  is 
something  in  your  line.  I  resign." 

The  doclor  kneeled,  pulled  open  the 
peer's  coat,  in  the  buttonhole  of  which 
was  a  white  carnation,  felt  for  the  heart 
and  the  pulse,  looked  into  the  eyes,  stood, 
and  took  off  his  hat. 

"He  is  dead,"  he  said. 

"  Quick  work,"  said  the  colonel.  "  No 
chance  for  bets.  I  could  have  got  two  to 
one  in  the  smoking-room  that  it  was  noth 
ing  but  the  booze." 

He  stood  a  moment,  looking  down  at 
the  heap  on  the  marble  floor. 

"Doclor,"  he  said  at  length,  "what 
was  it  we  used  to  have  at  school  —  some 
thing  about  de  mortuis  ?  There  was  more 
of  it,  but  I  forget  it.  Now,  just  between 
you  and  Shaw  and  me,  I  wish  to  say  that 
that  thing  lying  there  was  a  peer  of  Eng 
land  three  minutes  ago,  and  that  he  didn't 

[  85  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


have  a  friend.  I  '11  leave  him  to  you.  You 
have  the  smartest  practice  in  the  West 
End  —  and  the  largest  death-rate." 

He  started  toward  the  door,  paused, 
and  came  back. 

"Shaw,"  he  whispered,  "where  's  that 
note  ?  " 

"Here,  sir,"  replied  Shaw. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  said  the  colonel. 

"But,  sir,"  said  Shaw,  "the  rules  are 
very  stricl  about  members'  letters." 

"  How  is  it  addressed  ? "  asked  the 
colonel. 

"To  the  Earl  of  Vauxhall,  sir,"  re 
plied  Shaw. 

"  Who  is  the  Earl  of  Vauxhall  ? "  asked 
the  colonel. 

Shaw  stared.  "There  he  is,  sir,"  he 
said  finally,  pointing  to  the  floor. 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  colonel,  "that's 
nobody.  I  'm  going  to  see  the  earl,  and 
I  '11  give  him  his  letter." 

"Oh,"  said  Shaw,  "you  mean  Lord 
Robert,  sir  ?  He  is  the  earl  now,  sure 
enough,  sir,"  and  he  handed  over  the  note. 

[  86  ] 


Trof,  Trot  to  Market 


"Call  a  hansom,"  said  the  Colonel. 

II 

IT  was  only  a  moment's  drive  down 
Piccadilly  and  up  Clarges  Street,  when 
the  colonel  held  his  stick  to  the  left  and 
the  hansom  stopped.  The  colonel  sat  so 
long  that  cabby  opened  the  trap  and 
asked,  "  Is  this  right,  your  honor  ? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  colonel. "  I  'm  think 
ing;  don't  bother  me.  You're  Irish,  are 
you  not  ?" 

"  Well,  your  honor,"  said  cabby,  "  that 
depends." 

"  Upon  what  ? "  demanded  the  colo 
nel. 

"  Upon  what  your  honor  is,"  replied 
cabby. 

"Enough,"  said  the  colonel,  "we  are 
countrymen; "  and  he  stepped  to  the  side 
walk  and  handed  up  a  shilling. 

"Don't  break  your  hand,"  said  cabby. 

"  I  won't,"  said  the  colonel,  with  a 
laugh.  "Are  you  married?" 

"  I  am,  your  honor,"  replied  cabby. 

[87] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"And  one  at  the  breast,  I  expert,"  said 
the  colonel. 

"Two,  your  honor,"  said  cabby,  grin 
ning. 

"Good,"  said  the  colonel;  "we  are  a 
pair  of  rogues,  but  I  have  n't  another 
shilling  in  the  world." 

"I  '11  lend  your  honor  four  bob,"  said 
cabby,  standing  on  the  perch  and  going 
for  his  pocket. 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  the  colonel. "  I  don't 
want  another  creditor,  but  I  'd  shake  your 
hand  if  I  had  n't  just  touched  carrion." 

"  I  'm  even  with  your  honor,"  said 
cabby,  "I've  just  had  a  sandwich  at  the 
shelter." 

They  parted  with  mutual  regret,  and 
the  colonel  rang  the  bell  of  a  little  house 
with  a  green  light  over  the  door. 

"  Is  Lord  Robert  at  home  ? "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  servant,  and  the 
colonel  went  up  the  stairs,  stumbled  at 
the  top  step,  swore,  and  knocked. 

"  Come,"  said  some  one,  and  the  colonel 
entered. 

[  88  ] 


Trot,  Trot  to  Market 


"I'm  a  bit  late,"  he  said,  "but  the 
King  is  dead!  long  live  the  King." 

A  young  man  with  hair  the  color  of 
ripe  wheat,  with  black  eyebrows,  with 
a  waist  like  an  hour-glass,  with  a  skin  like 
milk,  and  a  voice  like  cream,  said, "  What 
are  you  rowing  about  ?  You've  got  aplace 
to  sleep,  I  suppose;  why  don't  you  go  to 
it?" 

"  Faith,"  said  the  colonel,  "  that 's  a  fine 
way  to  greet  the  bearer  of  glad  tidings. 
I  Ve  a  mind  not  to  tell  you,  but  I  must, 
it's  too  good  to  keep;  your  father  has 
been  dead  half  an  hour." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  exclaimed  the 
young  man. 

"Just  what  I  say,"  replied  the  colonel. 
"Your  respecled  parent  had  a  stroke  in 
the  vestibule  of  the  Celibates  and  never 
moved  after  it.  You  're  bearin'  up  won 
derfully,  my  lad.  I  know  what  a  blow  it 
is  to  you.  You  're  an  earl,  and  through 
no  fault  of  your  own.  I  trust,  my  lord, 
that  if  any  patronage  comes  your  way 
you  won't  forget  that  Colonel  Mellish 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


spent  his  last  shilling  to  bring  you  this 
news.  You  might  give  me  a  drink  now. 
I  Ve  a  bad  taste  in  my  mouth." 

The  Earl  of  Vauxhall  motioned  toward 
a  corner  of  the  room,  and  the  colonel  went 
to  a  cabinet,  opened  it,  and  took  out  a 
decanter,  a  glass,  and  a  syphon.  He  mixed 
a  drink,  drank  it,  mixed  another,  and  came 
back,  with  the  glass  in  his  hand.  He  took 
a  seat  by  the  fire  and  watched  the  earl 
pace  the  floor. 

"  Bobby,"  asked  the  colonel,  after  a  sip 
or  two,  "  how  long  is  it  since  you  and  the 
lamented  had  speech  together?" 

"  Rather  more  than  five  years,"  replied 
the  earl.  "  Did  he  speak  of  me  to-night  ? " 

"He  didn't  speak  at  all,"  said  the 
colonel.  "  He  just  wheezed  a  bit  and  was 
off.  He'd  been  drinking  well  all  day,  Shaw 
told  me,  so  we  Ve  every  reason  to  suppose 
he  died  happy.  Oh,  he  was  a  fine  old 
English  gentleman!" 

"  If  you  think,"  said  the  earl, "  that  you 
gratify  me  by  these  remarks,  you  are  mis 
taken.  While  he  was  alive,  it  was  one 


Trot,  Trot  to  Market 


thing.  Now  that  he  is  dead,  it  is  quite 
another.  You  will  oblige  me  by  either 
being  decent  or  going." 

The  colonel  laughed.  "All  right,  my 
lord,"  he  said.  "  I  came  to  talk  a  little 
business.  You  owe  me  a  thousand  pounds. 
I  suppose  it  will  soon  be  convenient  to 
pay,  now  that  you  have  come  into  the 
property." 

"Property!"  laughed  the  earl,  "there 
isn't  any.  The  land  is  mortgaged  up  to 
its  neck.  The  town  house  went  years  ago, 
and  the  pictures  and  the  bric-a-brac  were 
sold  in  '96.  My  father  leaves  me  nothing 
but  his  title  and  his  reputation.  As  forme, 
I  have  three  hundred  a  year  from  my 
mother,  in  a  trust;  I  sell  a  little  wine  to 
my  friends;  I  occasionally  help  an  artist 
to  get  rid  of  a  picture;  now  and  then  I 
get  a  tip  on  the  horses,  and  I  have  been 
known  to  play  cards  —  witness  my  debt 
to  you.  I  owe  more  money  than  I  ever 
had." 

The  colonel  sat  gazing  into  the  fire. 

"Bobby,"  he  said  at  length,  "it  looks 

[  91  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


as  though  you  would  have  to  sell  some 
thing." 

"I've  got  a  Waterbury  watch,"  said 
the  earl. 

"  I  brought  you  something  to-night 
that  is  rather  valuable,"  said  the  colonel. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  young  man. 

"An  earldom,"  replied  the  colonel, 
"  and  there 's  a  rich  American  born  every 
minute." 

The  young  man  laughed  again.  "Do 
you  know  a  possible  purchaser?  "he  asked. 

"I  do,"  replied  the  colonel.  "There's 
one  just  around  the  corner  in  Park  Lane. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  a  man  who  lived 
in  Montana  or  Delaware  or  some  other 
Western  place.  He  salted  mines  and  then 
sold  them.  He  built  railroads  and  then 
wrecked  them.  He  went  to  Congress  and 
worked  the  stock  market.  He  died  six 
months  ago  and  left  his  daughter  a  mat 
ter  of  sixty  thousand  a  year.  My  cousin, 
Matt  Cassidy,  was  the  old  man's  private 
secretary,  and  he  sent  me  all  the  particu 
lars  when  the  girl  came  over.  She  's  here 

[92  ] 


Trot,  Trot  to  Market 


with  her  aunt,  the  only  relation  she  has. 
They  brought  letters  to  the  Embassy,  but 
they  don't  know  many  people  yet,  being 
in  mourning  for  the  old  pirate.  They  do 
things  in  style.  They  have  as  good  horses 
as  go  in  London,  and  a  better  cook  than 
there  is  in  Buckingham  Palace." 

"Have  you  seen  her?"  asked  the  earl. 

"  Faith,  I  have,  and  twice,"  replied  the 
colonel.  "Both  times  in  the  Park,  and 
Bobby,  my  boy,  she's  the  sweetest  thing 
that  ever  came  out  of  the  States." 

"  How  old  is  she? "  asked  the  earl,  with 
some  animation. 

"Just  one  and  twenty,"  replied  the 
colonel.  "She  got  her  money  in  Febru 
ary.  I  have  a  list  of  her  securities  that 
Matt  sent  me.  At  present  prices  she's 
worth  over  a  million." 

"Pounds?"  asked  the  earl. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  colonel. 

"You  seem  to  have  been  thorough," 
said  the  earl. 

"  In  my  business,"  said  the  colonel, 
"you've  got  to  be  thorough." 

[  93  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"What  is  her  name?"  asked  the  earl. 

The  colonel  went  to  the  corner  and 
mixed  himself  another  drink.  "Bobby," 
he  said,  "before  I  tell  you  that,  we  ought 
to  have  an  understanding.  I  don't  want 
much." 

"  What  are  your  terms  ? "  asked  the  earl. 

"Cash  is  one  thing,"  said  the  colonel, 
"and  a  contingent  fee  is  another." 

"That's  reasonable,"  said  the  earl. 

"I  must  have  the  thousand  you  owe 
me,  and  nine  more  to  go  with  it,"  said 
the  colonel. 

"You  shall  have  it,"  said  the  earl. 

"And  in  addition, "continued  thecolo- 
nel,  "I  want  the  run  of  the  house.  I  want 
to  be  the  friend  of  the  family,  with  a  seat 
in  the  chimney-corner.  I'm  getting  old, 
and  I'm  looking  into  the  question  of 
reform." 

"Agreed,"  said  the  earl,  laughing. 

"  Shake,"  said  the  colonel,  and  they 
joined  hands. 

"Now,"  said  the  colonel,  glancing 
about  the  room  and  lowering  his  voice, 

[  94] 


Trot,  Trot  to  Market 


"I'll  tell  you  her  name.  It's  Harwood. 
Catherine  Harwood.  Don't  forget  it." 

"  I  shan't,"  said  the  earl;  "  but  how  am 
I  to  meet  her?" 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  replied  the  colo 
nel.  "Good  night." 

He  rose  unsteadily,  took  his  overcoat 
from  the  sofa,  and  struggled  into  it.  He 
buttoned  it  slowly  and  put  his  hands  into 
the  pockets  for  his  gloves. 

"  Hello,"  he  said,  "  I  was  near  forget 
ting.  The  late  earl,  of  blessed  memory, 
was  waiting  all  day  at  the  club  for  this 
note.  It  came  just  too  late  to  catch  him. 
He  had  been  so  anxious  about  it  that  I 
thought  it  might  be  important,  so  I 
brought  it  along.  You'd  best  open  it." 

The  earl  took  the  letter  and  broke  the 
seal.  He  read  the  contents  under  the  lamp. 

"It  seems,"  he  said,  "that  my  dear 
old  father  got  ahead  of  us." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  colonel. 

The  earl  read  aloud: 
"Dear  Lord  Vauxkall,  —  I  have  thought  it 
"  all  over  by  my  self ^  and  I  have  talked  it  all 

[  95  ] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"over  with  my  aunt^  and  my  answer  is  — 
"yes. 

"  /  shall  be  at  home  all  to-morrow  afternoon, 
"and  shall  look  for  you  at  any  hour. 
Very  sincerely^ 

Catherine  Harwood. 
"  Wednesday" 

"What!"  shouted  Colonel  Mellish. 

The  earl  tossed  the  note  across  the  table. 

"No,"  said  the  colonel.  "You  read  it 
again.  I  haven't  got  my  glasses." 

The  earl  complied.  When  he  had  fin 
ished,  the  colonel  went  slowly  to  the  cor 
ner  and  took  the  decanter  in  his  trem 
bling  hand.  The  bottle  clicked  against 
the  glass  as  he  poured. 

"  Here's  to  the  late  Earl  of  Vauxhall," 
he  said.  "  He  was  a  past-master.  Old,  hid 
eous,  bankrupt,  disgraced,  he  knew  how 
to  make  the  richest  girl  in  London  say 
—  yes.  Our  cake  is  dough,  but  I  drink  to 
him." 

"  It  occurs  to  me,"  said  the  earl,  "  that 
you  have  had  drink  enough.  Your  mind 
seems  a  bit  flabby." 

[  96] 


Trot,  Trot  to  Market 


"  How  so  ? "  asked  the  colonel. 

"She  didn't  marry  him,  did  she?" 
asked  the  earl. 

"No,"  replied  the  colonel. 

"But  she  said  she  would,  didn't  she?" 

The  colonel  nodded. 

"  He  's  dead,  is  n't  he  ? " 

"  Dead  ? "  exclaimed  the  colonel,  with 
a  shudder.  "  If  you  had  seen  him  on  the 
floor—" 

"Well,  then,"  continued  the  earl,  "is 
it  vanity  that  suggests  that,  if  she  were 
willing  to  marry  the  late  earl,  she  may 
be  willing  to  marry  the  present  one?" 

The  colonel  staggered  to  his  feet,  and 
threw  his  arms  about  his  companion's 
neck. 

"  Damn  it,"  he  cried,  "  we  '11  have  her 
yet.  The  old  man  did  all  the  work  and 
the  young  one  gets  the  girl  — " 

"  Sit  down,"  said  the  earl,  pushing 
him  off.  "  Don't  put  your  hands  on  me, 
man.  You  're  drunk." 

Colonel  Mellish  fell  into  his  chair. 

"You  '11  go  now,"  continued  the  earl. 

[  97  ] 


*The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  I  shall  step  around  to  my  father's  rooms. 
I  don't  suppose  they  will  let  me  in,  but 
I'll  give  them  a  chance.  Come  —  good 
night." 

The  colonel  reached  the  door  with 
effort.  "When  will  you  see  the  girl?" 
he  asked. 

"To-morrow,"  replied  the  earl.  "I 
sha  n't  need  to  be  presented.  I  '11  go  by  my 
self.  What's  the  number  of  the  house?" 

"  I  've  forgotten,"  said  the  colonel, 
"but  it's  the  one  with  the  conservatory 
in  front.  You  can't  miss  it." 

Ill 

1  HE  swift  bolt  of  the  gods  had  stricken 
the  old  Earl  of  Vauxhall  so  very  late  at 
night  that  the  morning  newspapers  made 
no  mention  of  the  calamity.  The  new 
earl  satisfied  himself  of  this  while  at 
breakfast.  He  had  come  from  his  cham 
ber  dressed  in  black,  and  his  first  acl:  was 
to  send  out  his  hat  to  be  fitted  with  a 
deep  band.  The  mirror  told  him  that  his 
mourning  was  becoming,  and  he  ate  his 

[  98  ] 


Trot,  Trot  to  Market 


egg  and  drank  his  tea  with  more  than 
usual  satisfaction. 

"  I  'm  an  earl  at  twenty-five,  and  there 's 
sixty  thousand  a  year  waiting  for  me  round 
the  corner,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  It  might 
be  worse." 

He  had  been  at  his  father's  rooms  the 
night  before,  and  when  he  had  finished 
his  breakfast  and  the  racing  news  in  the 
papers,  he  took  a  cab  again  for  Half 
Moon  Street.  His  father's  man  let  him  in. 

"Good  morning,  Dobbins,"  said  the 
earl,  "is  everything  right?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  replied  Dobbins,  "I've 
just  got  him  shaved  and  touched  up  a  bit, 
and  he  looks  very  well,  considering  what 
he  's  been  through.  Will  you  go  in,  my 
lord?" 

The  earl  hesitated.  "No,"  he  said,  at 
length,  "  I  don't  think  he  would  like  it 
if  he  knew  I  were  looking  at  him." 

"  I  dare  say  not,  my  lord,"  ventured 
Dobbins.  "He  was  a  bitter  hater." 

"Has  he  never  spoken  of  me  in  all 
these  years? "  asked  the  earl. 

[99] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  Not  in  a  way  I  ought  to  mention, 
my  lord,"  replied  Dobbins. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  the  earl,  "  but  I  had 
to  stand  by  my  mother." 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  said  Dobbins,  "you 
did  quite  right,  if  I  may  be  so  bold." 

"Thank  you,  Dobbins,"  said  the  earl. 
"You  know  more  about  it  than  any  one 
else.  By  the  way,  there  is  no  one  that 
should  be  notified  of  the  funeral,  is  there? 
I  have  wired  my  father's  cousin,  Mr. 
Whitstable.  He  is  the  only  relative  that 
I  know  of." 

Dobbins  shook  his  head.  "  I  'm  afraid, 
my  lord,"  he  said,  "  that  the  funeral  will 
look  like  a  creditors'  meeting." 

"Do  you  know  a  lady  named  Har- 
wood?"  asked  the  earl.  "  Miss  Catherine 
Harwood?" 

"  No,  my  lord,"  said  Dobbins,  reflect 
ing.  "I  don't  recall  the  name.  But  then," 
he  added,  looking  toward  the  chamber 
door,  "he  had  so  many." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  the  earl.  "  I  will 
come  in  again  this  evening." 


Trot,  Trot  to  Market 


At  his  rooms  he  found  Colonel  Mel- 
lish  awaiting  him. 

"Bobby,  my  lad,"  said  the  latter,  "I 
dropped  in  to  cheer  you  up  a  bit." 

"And  yourself,  incidentally,  I  see," 
said  the  earl,  pointing  to  the  decanter  on 
the  table. 

"  I  'm  doing  my  best,"  replied  the  colo 
nel,  "  but  I  'm  in  an  awful  funk.  Suppose 
she  won't  have  you?" 

The  earl  caught  a  glimpse  of  himself 
in  the  mirror.  "  I  think  she  '11  have  me 
fast  enough,"  he  said. "  The  only  question 
is,  has  she  got  the  money?" 

"I  have  it  in  black  and  white,"  ex 
claimed  the  colonel. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  earl.  "  We  '11  look 
over  the  schedules  while  we  are  eating 
our  chop." 

They  lunched  leisurely,  and  the  sched 
ules  proved  highly  satisfactory. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  these 
American  securities,"  said  the  earl,  "but 
they  certainly  look  well  on  paper." 

"  I  Ve  looked  them  all  up,"  said  the 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


colonel,  "and  they're  as  good  as  the 
Bank." 

The  earl  went  into  his  chamber,  added 
a  few  touches  to  his  toilet,  came  back, 
and  drew  on  a  pair  of  black  gloves. 

"  I  'm  off,"  he  said. 

"God  bless  you,"  said  the  colonel. 
"You'll  find  me  here.  Don't  be  long." 

The  earl  took  a  visiting-card  from  his 
case,  drew  a  pencil  through  the  name, 
and  wrote  under  the  line,  "The  Earl  of 
Vauxhall."  Then  he  went  out. 

The  house  with  the  conservatory  in 
front  was  not  far  down  Park  Lane,  and 
the  earl  stopped  his  hansom  before  the 
door.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  a  footman  in 
powder  took  his  card. 

"Is  Miss  Harwood  at  home?"  asked 
the  earl. 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  replied  the  man. 

The  earl  went  in,  and  was  shown 
through  the  hall,  past  another  footman, 
up  the  stairs,  and  into  a  small  room  on 
the  left.  He  looked  about  him  with  ap 
proval. 

[    102    ] 


Trot,  Trot  to  Market 


"This  will  do,  I  think,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  I  '11  make  a  few  slight  changes, 
but  on  the  whole  it  will  do.  How  those 
Americans  spend  money  on  flowers — 
bunches  on  the  piano  —  on  the  mantel  — 
on  the  cabinet  —  on  the  table  ;  four  guin 
eas,  at  least!  I  can  save  a  bit  there." 

His  ear  caught  the  rustle  of  a  skirt,  and 
he  turned  quickly.  A  girl  came  into  the 
room.  She  began  speaking  at  the  door. 

"Ah,  Lord  Vauxhall,"  she  said,  "I 
was  afraid  you  had  repented."  Then  she 
stopped  suddenly  and  gazed  at  the  earl. 

He  bowed  as  if  she  were  the  queen. 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  some  mistake," 
she  said,  smiling.  "  I  expected  to  find  the 
Earl  of  Vauxhall." 

"  Madam,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  am 
the  Earl  of  Vauxhall." 

"There  must  be  two  of  you,  then,"  she 
said,  laughing.  "You  certainly  are  not 
my  Earl  of  Vauxhall." 

"  Madam,"  said  the  earl,  "  you  doubt 
less  expected  to  see  my  father.  He  died 
last  night." 

[   I03  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  how  terrible  !  How 
sorry  I  am  for  you." 

"  And  I,  for  you,"  said  the  earl. 

"  For  me  ? "  she  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  that  he 
made  very  sad,  and  a  voice  into  which  he 
put  tears,  "for  you.  My  father  and  I  have 
been  estranged  and  have  not  spoken  to 
gether  in  many  years.  Chance  alone  has 
made  me  acquainted  with  his  great  hap 
piness — with  his  great  loss." 

The  girl  stood  speechless,  with  won 
dering  eyes. 

"Just  after  my  father's  death,"  contin 
ued  the  earl,  "this  letter  was  given  to 
me.  It  was  addressed  to  the  Earl  of  Vaux- 
hall,  and  I  opened  it.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  it  was  my  plain  duty  to  bring  it  back 
to  you  at  once.  I  alone  have  read  it,  and 
it  is  as  though  it  had  never  been  written." 

He  handed  her  the  note  and  stepped 
back.  She  opened  it,  glanced  at  its  con 
tents,  and  dropped  it  on  the  table  by 
which  she  stood. 

"  Yes,"  she  said, "  that  is  the  note  I  sent 

[   I04  ] 


Trof,  Trot  to  Market 


him  yesterday,  and  he  never  got  it  after 
all.  Poor  Lord  Vauxhall — he  seemed  so 
anxious  about  it." 

"I  do  not  blame  him,"  said  the  earl. 
"  He  had  everything  staked  upon  your 
answer." 

"  Was  it  as  bad  as  that,"  she  exclaimed. 

"Can  you  doubt  it?"  answered  the 
earl. 

The  girl  said  nothing,  but  stood  with 
downcast  eyes,  nervously  pulling  the 
petals  from  a  rose  upon  the  table.  The 
earl,  watching  her,  saw  her  lips  move  as 
if  she  were  trying  over  words  that  did  not 
suit  her,  and  he  also  saw  a  blush  mount 
slowly  from  her  throat  to  her  temples. 

"  Lord  Vauxhall,"  she  said  finally,  her 
words  halting,  her  voice  trembling,  "  We 
Americans  do  not  know  much  about 
these  things — we  are  brought  up  so  dif 
ferently.  We  come  over  here  and  make 
dreadful  mistakes.  I  am  very  much  afraid 
that  I  am  making  one  now,  but  if  I  am, 
you  must  forgive  me  and  forget  it.  If,  as 
you  say,  my  answer  was  of  such  impor- 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


tance  to  your  father,  perhaps,  as  you  have 
succeeded  him,  you  might  like  me  to  re 
peat  it  to  you.  If  you  wish,  you  may  con 
sider  that  note  to  have  been  written  to 
yourself." 

The  earl  dropped  his  hat  upon  the  floor 
and  ran  toward  her,  his  arms  extended. 
The  girl  looked  up,  saw  him  coming,  and 
with  a  cry,  sprang  behind  the  table.  The 
earl,  brought  up  standing,  saw  something 
in  the  girl's  eyes  that  made  him  think  he 
had  been  precipitate.  He  dropped  his 
arms  and  began  to  look  foolish. 

"Come,  now,"  he  said,  "is  that  the 
way  they  do  things  in  the  States?  If  you 
are  willing  to  marry  me  — " 

"Marry  you?"  gasped  the  girl. 

The  earl  gazed  at  her  silently,  then  he 
took  the  note  from  the  table  and  read  it 
aloud: 

"Dear  Lord  Vauxhall:  I  have  thought  it  all 
"  over  by  myself,  and  I  have  talked  it  all  over 
"with  my  aunt,  ana1  my  answer  is — yes  !  " 

He  looked  up.  The  girl  had  her  hand 
kerchief  to  her  face. 


Trot,  Trot  to  Market 


"Don't  cry,"  he  said;  "I'm  sorry  I 
frightened  you.  I  won't  do  it  again  if 
you're  not  used  to  it — I  mean — if  it  is 
not  customary  in  the  States." 

The  girl  took  the  handkerchief  from 
her  face.  Her  cheeks  were  scarlet,  but 
there  were  no  tears  upon  them. 

"  There,"  she  said,  "  I  have  n't  laughed 
out  loud  yet,  but  if  you  don't  go  pretty 
soon,  I  shall  break  down." 

The  earl  shifted  his  feet  uneasily. 

"  But  how  about  the  letter? "  he  asked, 
somewhat  sullenly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  girl,  "the  letter; 
I  suppose  I  must  explain  that  Lord  Vaux- 
hall  was  very  anxious  that  I  should  buy 
some  of  the  family  diamonds.  He  said 
his  son  had  ruined  him.  I  promised  to 
give  an  answer  yesterday,  and  so  I  wrote 
that  note." 

The  earl  looked  about  for  his  hat.  It 
was  not  to  be  seen. 

"I  think,"  said  the  girl,  "that  when 
you  dropped  it,  it  rolled  under  the  sofa.  I 
will  ring  for  a  servant  to  get  it  for  you." 

[  I07  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


The  earl  said  nothing,  but  getting  on 
all  fours,  fished  out  the  hat  with  the  deep 
mourning  band.  While  he  was  in  this 
posture  the  handkerchief  went  up  to  the 
girl's  face  again,  but  she  made  no  sound. 

When  the  earl  reached  the  door  he 
turned  and  bowed  again,  as  though  to 
royalty.  The  girl  still  stood  behind  the 
table.  As  he  looked  at  her  his  eyes  began 
to  twinkle  and  his  lips  to  twitch. 

"  You  may  come  out  of  the  corner  now, 
little  girl,  if  you  will  be  good,"  he  said, 
and  went  out  laughing. 

When  the  girl  heard  the  street  door 
close,  she  came  quickly  from  behind  the 
table  and  ran  to  the  window.  She  sepa 
rated  the  curtains  by  an  inch  and  looked 
out.  She  saw  the  Earl  of  Vauxhall  go 
down  the  steps  and  cross  the  sidewalk  to 
the  hansom.  As  he  reached  the  curb,  he 
turned  and  looked  up.  He  was  still  laugh 
ing.  The  girl  watched  him  until  he  dis 
appeared  down  the  street,  then  she  left 
the  window  and  walked  slowly  toward 
the  door. 

[  108  ] 


Trot,  Trot  to  Market 


"  I  wonder,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  what 
would  have  happened  if  that  table  had 
not  been  there." 

She  stood  a  moment,  wondering;  then, 
blushing  and  laughing,  she  grasped  her 
skirts  and  ran  from  the  room. 

The  footmen  in  the  hall  below  heard 
the  flying  footsteps  and  the  laughter. 

"'Icks,"  said  the  elder,  "she  lacks  re 
pose." 

"  She  do,  Mr.  Wilson,"  assented  Hicks, 
"she  do." 


[   109  ] 


THE    PEACH 


THE    PEACH 


i 

JjEFORE  my  uncle  turned  serious  and 
began  to  put  on  flesh,  he  spent  some  years 
in  the  critical  study  of  mankind,  his  re 
searches  compelling  him  to  divide  his 
time  between  Paris  and  Monte  Carlo. 
For  purposes  of  taking  deep  soundings  in 
the  sea  of  humanity  he  kept  his  steam- 
yacht  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  it  used 
to  be  said  that  the  holding-ground  on  the 
north  shore  of  that  pleasant  lake  was 
spoiled  by  the  empty  champagne  bot 
tles  dropped  overboard  from  the  Merry 
Wives. 

It  was  during  this  period  of  research 
and  experiment  that  my  uncle,  very  early 
one  morning,  kicked  open  the  green 
baize  doors  of  the  Municipal  Casino,  in 
Nice,  and  emerged  upon  the  Place  Mas- 
sena.  Had  it  not  been  carnival  time  his 

[  "3  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


appearance  might  have  caused  remark, 
since  he  wore  a  Pierrot  costume  of  white 
satin,  his  face  was  floured,  and  his  hair 
was  covered  by  a  smoothly  fitting  skull 
cap.  At  my  uncle's  heels  there  followed 
a  troop  of  male  and  female  maskers  who, 
with  shrill  cries,  besought  him  not  to 
leave  them.  Various  propositions  were  ad 
vanced, —  "one  more  dance,"  "a  little 
supper  at  the  London  House,"  "a  drive 
to  Cimella  to  ring  up  the  monks,"  —  but 
against  all  these  my  uncle,  who  by  this 
time  had  entered  a  cab,  turned  a  smiling 
but  resolute  face. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said  in  ex 
cellent  French,  waving  his  hand  over  the 
back  of  the  voiture,  "  and  thou  especially, 
Hortense,"  and  he  threw  a  kiss  to  a  tall 
girl  in  pink,  "it  lacerates  my  heart  to 
leave  you.  But  what  would  you;  we  are 
still  young  and  the  world  is  very  small. 
Count  Lenormand,  I  kiss  your  hands. 
Hortense,  thy  lips.  To  the  harbor,  coach 
man." 

The  cab  started  when  a  young  man  in 


The  Peach 

ordinary  dress  sprang  forward  and  cried, 
"And  me,  monsieur?" 

"Ah,"  said  my  uncle,  "I  had  forgot 
ten, — jump  in;"  and  the  two  drove  off 
together,  followed  by  cheers,  laughing 
adieus,  and  perhaps  a  tear  or  two,  for 
my  uncle  had  great  possessions. 

At  the  harbor  the  Merry  Wives  lay 
so  close  to  the  quay  that  one  had  only 
to  cross  the  gang-plank  to  reach  her 
deck. 

"Captain  Sparrow,"  said  my  uncle  to 
the  officer  who  saluted  him  at  the  gang 
way,  "  this  gentleman  is  so  good  as  to  give 
me  a  half-hour  of  his  company;  after  that 
you  may  get  under  way." 

If  the  captain  observed  anything  unus 
ual  in  his  owner's  costume  he  gave  no 
sign,  but  saluting  again  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  walked  toward  the  engine-room 
hatch.  The  after-deck  was  covered  with 
rugs  and  skins.  On  a  large  table  were  two 
softly  shaded  lamps,  books,  and  a  collec 
tion  of  pipes.  Scattered  about  were  sev 
eral  lounging-chairs.  My  uncle  touched 

[  "5] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


a  bell  and  directed  the  steward  who  an 
swered  it  to  bring  brandy  and  soda. 

"  Monsieur," said  the  young  man,  "be 
fore  I  partake  of  your  hospitality  I  should 
tell  you  my  name;"  and  he  handed  my 
uncle  a  visiting-card,  upon  which  the  lat 
ter  read  by  the  lamplight  the  words  "  Se 
bastian  Grantaire." 

"Your  name,  monsieur,"  said  my  un 
cle,  "is  a  new  one  to  me,  and  I  do  not 
recall  your  face,  but  I  have  an  idea  that 
I  can  guess  the  affair  that  gives  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance.  When 
you  spoke  to  me  at  the  ball  I  said  to 
myself,  'It  has  arrived.'  It  is  in  behalf 
of  a  certain  lady  that  you  are  here,  is 
knot?" 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  with  a 
smile. 

"  No,  monsieur,"  he  replied,  "  I  bear 
no  challenge." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  see  you,  monsieur," 
said  my  uncle. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  resumed  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause,  "it  is  that  a  cathedral  is  to 
[  "6] 


The  Peach 

be  restored,  and  that  an  opportunity  is 
afforded?" 

"  No,  monsieur,  I  have  no  subscription 
paper." 

"One  more  guess,"  said  my  uncle, 
"  and  I  am  done.  It  is  that  a  noble  family, 
having  met  with  reverses,  is  obliged  to 
part  with  a  Rembrandt  or  a  Correggio. 
Ah,  I  have  it  at  last." 

"You  are  wrong  again,  monsieur.  I 
have  not  come  to  sell  you  pictures,  but 
to  lay  the  world  at  your  feet." 

"Have  you  it  with  you?"  asked  my 
uncle. 

"Yes,"  said  Grantaire,  and  putting  his 
hand  in  his  breast  he  drew  forth  a  small 
green  morocco  portfolio,  which  he  placed 
upon  the  table. 

My  uncle  eyed  it  curiously  for  a  mo 
ment.  "  I  see  that  the  world  is  flat,"  he 
remarked. 

"Monsieur,"  asked  Grantaire,  "what 
is  it  that  all  mankind  dreads  but  cannot 
escape  ? " 

"The  police,"  replied  my  uncle, 
promptly.  [  ny  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"No,"  said  Grantaire,  "it  is  death, 
and  with  this,"  and  he  placed  his  hand 
on  the  portfolio,  "I  shall  abolish  death. 
Do  you  desire  greater  wealth  than  you 
already  possess  ?  Do  you  long  for  power  ? 
You  shall  have  such  riches  as  the  world 
never  saw  heaped  up,  and  such  power  as 
never  yet  man  wielded.  I  have  spent  fif 
teen  years  and  a  fortune  seeking  it.  Listen 
a  moment.  When  Miserob  the  Arme 
nian,  early  in  the  fifth  century,  wished  to 
translate  the  Bible,  he  sent  his  students 
to  Alexandria  to  learn  the  Greek  tongue. 
One  of  them  brought  this  back  with  him. 
Miserob  gave  it  to  Moses  of  Khorene,  who 
placed  it  in  the  Vatican  library  in  the  year 
437-  When  the  Popes  went  to  Avignon 
in  1 309  it  went  with  them,  and  when  they 
returned  to  Rome,  Gregory  XI.  carried  it 
back.  When  the  Duke  of  Bourbon  sacked 
the  Vatican  in  1527,  and  was  shot  by 
Benvenuto  Cellini,  one  of  his  soldiers 
stole  it,  sold  it  to  the  royal  library  at 
Fontainebleau  in  1534,  and  stole  it  back 
again  the  next  day.  This  soldier  caused 

[  "8] 


The  Peach 

me  much  trouble,  monsieur.  He  pawned 
it  once  in  Paris,  and  twice  in  Marseilles, 
under  an  assumed  name,  and  chancing  to 
die  at  Corbie  in  Picardy,  the  monk  who 
shrived  him  took  it  from  his  bosom.  This 
monk  placed  it  in  the  library  of  the  mon 
astery,  and  it  appears  in  the  catalogue  of 
1638.  In  1794,  it  was  removed  to  the 
town  library  of  Amiens,  where  it  was 
unnoticed.  Four  years  ago  I  was  made 
care-taker  at  Amiens,  and  day  before  yes 
terday  I  found  it.  It  had  been  stolen  for 
fourteen  hundred  years,  and  I  had  no  scru 
ples.  Why  should  I  ?  It  had  cost  me  the 
best  years  of  my  life,  and  five  hundred 
thousand  francs  to  find  it.  Who  is  the 
rightful  owner?  The  library  at  Alexan 
dria.  Where  is  that  library?  Cassar  burned 
it." 

"  That  was  a  long  time  ago,  monsieur," 
remarked  my  uncle. 

"So  long,"  said  Grantaire,  "that  the 
statute  has  run.  It  is  mine  by  right  of  dis 
covery,  and  history  begins  from  this  day." 

My  uncle  struck  a  match  and  lit  a  pipe. 

[   "9  ] 


T'/ie  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"Monsieur  Grantaire,"  he  asked,  "what 
is  itr 

The  Frenchman  sprang  from  his  chair. 
"Haven't  I  told  you?"  he  exclaimed; 
then,  leaning  over,  he  whispered  in  my 
uncle's  ear,  "  It  is  a  map  showing  the  ex- 
a6t  location  of  the  Garden  of  Eden,  and 
a  manuscript  by  Miserob,  who  visited  it." 

Just  then  Captain  Sparrow  came  aft 
and  asked  if  he  should  get  under  way. 

"  Does  it  matter  whether  you  stay  here 
or  go  on  to  Monaco  ? "  asked  my  uncle  of 
Grantaire. 

"No,"  he  replied;  "the  little  bag  I 
brought  aboard  is  my  luggage." 

My  uncle  nodded  to  the  captain,  who 
gave  an  order  and  went  upon  the  bridge. 
The  boatswain's  whistle  sounded,  the 
crew  cast  off  the  hawsers,  a  bell  jingled 
in  the  engine-room,  the  screw  began  to 
slowly  beat  the  water,  and  the  Merry 
Wives  glided  out  of  the  harbor.  Just  then 
the  sun  peeped  over  the  boot  of  Italy,  and 
the  water  and  the  sky  turned  from  gray 
to  pink  and  then  to  blue;  a  faint  breeze 


The  Peach 

sprang  up  from  the  east,  bringing  with  it 
the  scent  of  roses  and  of  pines,  the  bugles 
sounded  from  Villafranca,  and  my  uncle 
leaned  over  and  blew  out  the  lamps,  for 
it  was  morning. 

II 

W  HEN  Grantaire  came  on  deck  at 
four  bells  the  yacht  lay  at  anchor  under 
the  palace  of  Monaco.  An  awning  had 
been  stretched  over  the  after-deck,  and 
under  this  breakfast  was  laid.  The  stew 
ard  had  just  placed  the  melons  on  the 
table  when  my  uncle  came  up  the  hatch. 
"  Ah,  monsieur,"  he  said,  "  I  dreamed 
of  the  Garden  of  Eden  all  night,  and  we 
wake  to  find  it  on  our  port  bow,"  and 
he  waved  his  hand  toward  Monte  Carlo. 
"Yes,"  he  continued,  as  they  took  their 
seats,  "here  you  have  sky,  water,  trees, 
flowers,  music,  pigeon-shooting,  gam 
bling,  and  every  two-footed  beast  that 
walks  the  earth;  besides  there  are  no 
taxes.  Does  not  that  make  a  paradise  ? 
Why  did  you  spend  so  much  money  for 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


your  map  when  you  could  have  bought 
a  Baedeker  for  four  francs  ? " 

"Monsieur,"  replied  Grantaire,  "I 
fear  that  you  do  not  take  me  seriously. 
Have  you  a  Bible  ? " 

"Steward,"  said  my  uncle,  "is  there  a 
Bible  on  board  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  steward ;  "  when 
we  was  fittin'  in  Southampton  the  mate 
won  one  at  a  Salvation  Army  raffle." 

"Ask  the  mate  to  loan  it  to  me,"  said 
my  uncle,  "and  meanwhile,  monsieur, 
try  these  eggs  a  la  Bercy." 

The  steward  came  back  with  the  book. 
Grantaire  took  it  and  crossed  himself. 
"This,"  he  said  solemnly,  "is  the  Word 
of  God." 

Then  he  read  the  following  from  the 
Book  of  Genesis: 

"  And  the  Lord  God  planted  a  garden  east- 
"  ward  in  Eden,  and  there  he  put  the  man 
"whom  he  had  formed. 
"And  out  of  the  ground  made  the  Lord  God 
"to  grow  every  tree  that  is  pleasant  to  the 
"sight  and  good  for  food ;  the  tree  of  life  also 

[     122    ] 


The  Peach 

"in  the  midst  of  the  garden,  and  the  tree  of 

"knowledge  of  good  and  evil. 

"And  the  Lord  God  commanded  the  man, 

"saying,  Of  every  tree  of  the  garden  thou 

" may est freely  eat; 

"  But  of  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and 

"  evil,  thou  shalt  not  eat  of  it :  for  in  the  day 

"  that  thou  eatest  thereof  thou  shalt  surely  die" 

He  paused  a  moment  and  resumed: 

"And  the  Lord  God  said,  Behold,  the  man 
"  is  become  as  one  of  us,  to  know  good  and  evil; 
"  and  now,  lest  he  put  forth  his  hand  and  take 
"  also  of  the  tree  of  life,  and  eat,  and  livefor- 
"  ever: 

"  Therefore  the  Lord  God  sent  him  forth  from 
"the  Garden  of  Eden,  to  till  the  ground  from 
"whence  he  was  taken. 
"So  he  drove  out  the  man ;  and  he  placed  at 
"the  east  of  the  Garden  of  Eden  the  Cheru- 
"  him  and  the  jlame  of  a  sword,  which  turned 
"  every  way  to  keep  the  way  of  the  tree  of 
"life." 

He  closed  the  book  and  said  :  "  Do  you 
understand  now  what  I  have  obtained  ? 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


Do  you  see  that  what  the  world  has  been 
seeking  for  ages  I  have  found  in  a  search 
of  only  fifteen  years  ?  Don't  you  under 
stand  that  the  man  who  finds  the  Garden 
of  Eden  will  find  there  growing  the  Tree 
of  Life,  and  that  he  who  finds  the  tree 
may  eat  of  the  fruit  thereof? " 

My  uncle  buttered  a  muffin  with  great 
care.  "Monsieur,"  he  said  at  length,  "do 
you  believe  what  you  have  just  read?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Grantaire. "  My  mother 
taught  me  to  believe  it  when  I  was  a  child, 
and  I  have  met  no  man  since  who  was 
wise  enough  to  give  me  a  substitute.  Be 
sides,  Miserob  found  the  garden  and  the 
tree." 

"It  does  not  seem  to  have  worked  in 
his  case,"  said  my  uncle.  "He  is  quite 
dead,  is  he  not  ?" 

"Yes,  he  died  fourteen  hundred  years 
ago,  but  he  did  not  eat  of  the  fruit." 

"And  you,  monsieur,  if  you  were  to 
find  the  tree,  would  you  disobey  the  divine 
injunction  and  eat  thereof;  would  your 
mother  approve  of  that  ? " 

[  1*4] 


The  Peach 

"Ah,  monsieur,"  replied  Grantaire, 
"man  was  told  that  he  might  freely  eat 
of  every  tree  in  the  garden  save  only  of 
the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and 
evil.  He  was  not  forbidden  to  eat  of  the 
tree  of  life." 

My  uncle  smoked  silently  for  some 
minutes ;  then  he  said,  somewhat  abruptly, 
"Tell  me  what  you  wish  and  why  you 
have  come  to  me." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Grantaire,  "  I  wish 
money  for  myjourney,  and  I  come  to  you 
because  you  are  young  and  venturesome 
and  the  richest  man  of  your  years  in  France 
to-day." 

My  uncle  rose  from  the  table,  and  the 
quartermaster,  who  had  been  waiting  this 
signal  that  breakfast  was  over,  hauled 
down  the  meal  pennant.  Grantaire  re 
mained  in  his  seat.  My  uncle  took  a  turn 
up  and  down  the  deck,  returned  Captain 
Sparrow's  good  morning,  and  then  went 
on  the  bridge.  He  came  down  again  and 
walked  aft  to  where  Grantaire  was  sit 
ting. 

[    125  ] 


"  Monsieur,"  he  said,  "  how  much  will 
it  cost  ? " 

"  As  you  would  travel,"  replied  Gran- 
taire,  "with  a  caravan,  bearers,  a  chef,  a 
valet,  and  an  ice  machine,  it  would  take  a 
million  francs.  As  I  shall  go,  a  hundred 
thousand  will  suffice." 

"Have  you  any  money?"  asked  my 
uncle. 

"Two  louis,"  replied  Grantaire;  and 
he  laid  them  on  the  table. 

"They  will  buy  you  an  umbrella  for 
your  journey,"  said  my  uncle.  "  You  were 
wise  to  come  to  me,  for  as  you  say,  I  am 
very,  very  young.  I  have  also  more  money 
than  is  good  for  me.  I  decline  to  furnish 
one  hundred  thousand  francs,  but  I  will 
make  you  a  sporting  proposition.  I  came 
here  this  morning  to  gamble.  I  have  fifty 
thousand  francs  in  my  cabin.  I  never  lose 
more.  I  will  divide  with  you,  and  we  will 
go  to  Monte  Carlo  after  lunch;  if  you  win 
seventy-five  thousand  francs,  there  you 
are." 

"  And  if  I  lose  ? "  asked  Grantaire. 
[  -26  ] 


The  Peach 

"  Why,  in  that  event,"  said  my  uncle, 
"there  you  are  also." 

At  luncheon  there  were  some  hot 
house  peaches  on  the  table.  Grantaire 
took  one  up  and  said,  "  By  the  way, 
monsieur,  I  am  convinced  that  I  shall 
find  the  fruit  to  be  more  like  a  peach 
than  an  apple,  which  in  its  palatable  form 
is  artificial." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  my  uncle,  somewhat 
impatiently,  "but  the  launch  is  at  the 
gangway,  and  if  you  are  ready,  I  am.  Here 
are  the  twenty-five  thousand  francs." 

While  in  the  launch,  Grantaire  said, 
"  This  is  the  nineteenth  of  the  month  and 
my  birthday." 

They  landed  just  east  of  the  station, 
and  crossing  the  tracks,  mounted  the  long 
flight  of  steps  to  the  terrace.  When  they 
entered  the  casino,  Grantaire  went  into 
the  bureau  and  asked  for  a  card  of  ad 
mission.  He  called  my  uncle's  attention 
to  the  fa6t  that  it  was  numbered  1906. 
Then  they  left  their  hats  and  Grantaire's 
bag  in  the  vestiaire.  Grantaire's  hat  check 

[   I27  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


was  number  719.  They  went  into  the  large 
room  where  the  four  roulette  tables  are. 

"Good  luck  to  you,"  said  my  uncle, 
and  turned  to  the  left.  Grantaire  went 
toward  the  table  on  the  right. 

"  Now,"  said  my  uncle  to  himself, "  I  '11 
give  him  a  chance  to  bolt  and  close  the 
incident." 

But  Grantaire  did  not  bolt.  He  took 
his  stand  behind  the  players  until  some 
one  rose  to  leave,  then  he  threw  a  louis 
on  the  table  and  claimed  the  vacant  seat. 
My  uncle  went  over  and  stood  where  he 
could  watch  him.  Grantaire  handed  the 
croupier  two  notes  for  1,000  francs  each 
and  received  the  gold  for  them.  Then  he 
placed  eight  louis  on  the  number  nine 
teen,  and  i  ,200  francs  on  the  line  between 
nineteen  and  twenty-two,  thus  playing  the 
"transverse."  He  next  laid  3,000  francs 
on  the  middle  dozen.  The  croupiers  and 
the  players  began  to  watch  him.  Next  he 
placed  6,000  francs  on  "red,"  the  same 
on  "passe,"  and  the  same  on  "impaire"; 
the  remainder,  2,620  francs,  he  laid  in 


The  Peach 

the  square  at  the  bottom  of  the  first  col 
umn  of  figures.  The  croupiers  unfolded 
the  notes  and  called  their  amounts.  The 
players  from  the  other  tables  crowded 
about,  and  my  uncle  had  hard  work  to 
keep  his  place. 

"Make  your  play,  ladies  and  gentle 
men,"  called  the  croupier,  then,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  he  spun  the  wheel  and 
threw  the  ball.  There  was  silence  until 
the  ball  began  to  hit  against  the  partitions 
of  the  slowing  wheel.  "Nothing  more 
goes,"  called  the  croupier,  and  then  the 
seconds  became  hours.  Suddenly  the  click 
of  the  ball  ceased  —  it  had  settled  into  one 
of  the  partitions.  "Dix-neuf,  passe,  im- 
paire  et  rouge,"  called  the  croupier.  Gran- 
taire  sat  unmoved  while  the  croupiers 
counted  out  his  several  bets;  and  when 
they  finally  pushed  over  to  him  41,890 
francs,  he  gathered  them  up,  but  left  his 
stakes  upon  the  table  and  added  to  them 
from  his  winnings  sufficient  to  cover  the 
other  "transverse,"  the  "corners,"  the 
"couples,"  and  the  "cross,"  and  he  also 

[   I29  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


completed  his  stake  upon  the  first  column. 

No  one  else  made  a  bet.  The  croupier 
bowed  to  Grantaire  and  asked,  "  Is  mon 
sieur  quite  ready?" 

"Quite,"  replied  Grantaire,  and  the 
wheel  started.  There  was  the  same 
strained  silence,  broken  only  by  the  click 
ing  of  the  ball;  and  when  that  ceased, 
before  the  croupier  could  announce  the 
result  the  crowd  shouted.  The  ball  had 
stopped  in  number  nineteen.  The  croupier 
counted  out  to  Grantaire  78,650  francs. 
He  gathered  up  all  the  money  on  the 
table  and  left  his  seat.  He  walked  into 
the  entrance-hall  and  consulted  a  rail 
way  time-table  which  hung  on  one  of  the 
pillars.  My  uncle  joined  him  there. 

"Ah,  monsieur,"  said  Grantaire,  "a 
train  leaves  for  the  East  in  six  minutes. 
I  have  won  120,540  francs.  I  return  you 
the  25,000  which  you  so  kindly  loaned 
me,  and  the  20,540  as  interest,"  and  he 
thrust  a  roll  of  notes  into  my  uncle's  hand. 
They  walked  toward  the  station. 

"Monsieur,"  said  my  uncle,  "I  ad- 


The  Peach 

mired  your  courage  when  you  left  your 
stake  upon  the  table." 

Grantaire  took  off  his  hat.  "It  was 
nothing,"  he  said,  "compared  with  yours 
when  you  loaned  me  the  25,000  francs. 
May  I  ask  why  you  have  never  asked  to 
see  the  map?" 

My  uncle  laughed.  "  I  was  afraid,"  he 
answered,  "that  if  I  saw  it  I  should  go 
with  you." 

Just  then  the  engine  whistled,  and  the 
two  men  shook  hands. 

"  I  shall  report  to  you  in  New  York," 
said  Grantaire,  and  ran  down  the  steps. 

Ill 

HEIGHT  years  afterward,  on  an  after 
noon  in  early  June,  the  Merry  Wives 
passed  Whitestone  bound  west. The  yacht, 
being  feminine,  had  changed  her  name, 
and  was  now  the  Beatrix.  Captain  Spar 
row  was  on  the  bridge,  and  my  uncle  was 
dozing  in  a  steamer  chair  under  the  after 
awning.  On  the  table,  among  the  books 
and  flowers,  lay  a  pair  of  small  gloves  and 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


a  fan.  A  green  parrot  hung  in  a  gilded 
cage. 

"Jack,"  came  a  voice  from  the  after 
hatch.  My  uncle  smiled  and  half  opened 
his  eyes. 

"Here,"  he  replied. 

"Jack,"  the  voice  continued,  "throw 
me  down  your  keys." 

My  uncle  fished  his  key-ring  out  of 
his  trousers  pocket  and  tossed  it  down  the 
hatch  ;  then  he  resumed  his  slumbers,  but 
not  for  long,  for  soon  there  emerged  from 
the  companionway  a  white  sailor  hat,  then 
a  comely,  smiling  face,  then  a  blue  serge 
gown,  and  finally,  as  my  aunt  stepped  onto 
the  deck,  a  white  shoe  and  a  few  inches 
of  black  silk  stocking. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  "see  what  I  found  in 
the  little  drawer  in  your  dressing-table," 
and  she  held  out  a  visiting-card  to  which 
were  pinned  a  number  of  French  bank 
notes.  "Who  is  Sebastian  Grantaire?" 

"  I  declare,"  said  my  uncle,  "  I  had  for 
gotten  all  about  it,"  and  he  took  the  notes 
from  my  aunt  and  counted  them.  "  Twen- 


The  Peach 

ty  thousand  five  hundred,"  he  said.  Then 
he  took  a  small  purse  from  his  pocket, 
from  which  he  abstracted  two  louis. 
"These,"  he  said,  "go  with  them  and 
make  up  the  20,540  francs."  And  then 
he  told  my  aunt  the  story. 

"Jack,"  said  she,  "it  seems  to  me  that 
you  did  very  strange  things  when  you 
were  studying  in  Europe." 

"Nothing,"  replied  he,  "to  what  I 
have  done  since." 

"What?"  asked  my  aunt. 

"  There  's  my  total  reformation,  for  one 
thing,"  said  my  uncle,  who  grew  demon 
strative. 

"Don't,"  said  my  aunt,  straightening 

her   hat,   "some    of  the   men   will  see 

»> 
you. 

"  They  don't  mind,"  said  my  uncle,  and 
he  did  it  again. 

When  the  Beatrix  dropped  her  anchor 
off  the  yacht-station  at  Twenty-sixth 
Street,  my  uncle  and  my  aunt  went  ashore 
in  the  gig,  and  were  met  at  the  float  by 
a  servant  who,  as  he  shut  the  door  of  the 

[    '33  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


brougham,  handed  in  a  bundle  of  letters. 
My  uncle  opened  the  first  one,  read  it, 
settled  back  into  the  corner,  and  dropped 
the  hand  which  held  the  paper  onto  his 
knee.  My  aunt,  who  had  been  looking 
out  of  her  window,  surprised  him  in  this 
attitude. 

"What  is  it,  Jack?"  she  asked. 

My  uncle  handed  her  the  letter.  It  was 
in  French,  and  she  read  it  aloud: 

"  If  Monsieur  'will  take  the  Elevated  Railway 
"  this  evening  and  will  descend  ati$$th  Street 
"  as  if  to  proceed  to  the  Polo  Grounds ',  he  will 
"  learn  the  gratitude  of 

"SEBASTIAN  GRANTAIRE. 

"Friday,  June  fourth." 

They  sat  silent  for  some  moments,  then 
my  aunt  drew  close  to  my  uncle  and  said, 
"Jack,  I'm  afraid;  just  think,  wre  were 
talking  of  him  only  an  hour  ago,  and  you 
had  not  thought  of  him  before  in  eight 
years;  and  now  the  first  thing  you  get 
when  you  reach  home  is  his  letter,  and 
he  wants  you  to  go  way  up  to  the  Polo 

[   '34] 


The  Peach 

Grounds  to-night.  Shall  you  go,  Jack  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  shall,"  he  replied,  "  and 
I  '11  have  Grantaire  in  to  lunch  to-morrow. 
Perhaps  you  can  get  on  to  his  game  — 
he  's  too  deep  for  me." 

This  tribute  to  my  aunt's  superior  as 
tuteness  silenced  her  objections,  and  my 
uncle  went  down  the  steps  of  the  Elevated 
at  1 55th  Street  that  evening  at  just  six 
minutes  past  nine  and  started  to  walk 
toward  Eighth  Avenue.  He  had  not  gone 
far  when  a  shadow  clambered  down  from 
the  rocks  and  stood  in  the  road  until  my 
uncle  came  up;  then  the  shadow  raised  its 
hat  and  said,  "  Monsieur,  I  felt  sure  that 
you  would  come." 

"Grantaire,"  asked  my  uncle,  some 
what  nervously,  "  is  that  you  ? " 

"Ah,  monsieur,"  replied  the  shadow, 
"that  opens  a  philosophical  question 
which  has  baffled  the  ages.  There  are 
good  things  to  be  said  on  both  sides  of 
it ;  and  to  be  frank  with  you,  I  don't 
know.  I  only  know  that  eight  years  ago 
you  loaned  me  25,000  francs,  and  if  I 

[  135  ] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


were  Grantaire  then  I  am  Grantaire  now, 
but  who  knows  ?  Come." 

They  turned  off  from  the  road  across 
the  rocks. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  asked  my 
uncle. 

"But  a  step,"  replied  Grantaire;  "my 
house  is  yonder." 

In  a  few  moments  they  stopped  at  one 
of  those  composite  huts  found  only  in  the 
upper  part  of  Manhattan  Island.  While 
Grantaire  was  working  at  the  lock  my 
uncle  looked  about  him  and  saw  over  at 
the  south  the  illuminated  tents  of  "The 
Greatest  Show  on  Earth"  pitched  on  the 
Polo  Grounds,  and  the  faint  breeze 
brought  to  his  ears  the  music  of  the 
circus.  Grantaire  entered  the  hut  and 
turned  up  the  lamp.  My  uncle  followed 
him,  and  then  for  the  first  time  saw  his 
companion's  face.  Grantaire  was  an  old 
man.  His  hair  and  beard  were  white,  his 
flesh  had  wasted  and  turned  yellow,  and 
his  eyes  were  only  glittering  black  beads, 
without  pupil  or  iris,  that  rested  on  my 

[  136  ] 


The  Peach 

uncle  for  an  instant  and  then  turned  away. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Grantaire,  his  eyes 
averted,  his  fingers  ceaselessly  playing 
upon  the  arms  of  his  chair,  "to-night  I 
am  in  a  position  to  repay  the  loan  you 
made  me." 

"You  forget,"  said  my  uncle,  "that 
you  paid  it  to  me  the  same  day  at  Monte 
Carlo,  and  left  with  me  in  addition  20,540 
francs,  which  I  now  return  to  you."  And 
he  placed  them  on  the  table. 

"  As  you  please,"  said  Grantaire,  "  they 
will  help  to  pay  postage.  To-morrow, 
when  my  secret  is  known,  I  shall  have  a 
correspondence.  When  I  said  that  I  was 
in  a  position  to  repay  your  loan  I  did  not 
mean  that  I  actually  had  the  money;  I 
meant  that  I  had  the  power  to  command 
money.  I  have  found  the  Tree  of  Life. 
Shall  I  tell  you  where  I  found  it  ? " 

My  uncle  thought  a  moment  and  then 
said,  "No;  tell  me  what  you  found. 
Don't  tell  me  your  route.  If  I  knew  that, 
I  might  wake  some  morning  with  an  ir 
resistible  desire  to  travel." 

[    137  ] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  I  found,"  said  Grantaire,  "  after  a  six 
months'  journey  over  mountain-ranges 
and  across  deserts,  two  small  volcanoes 
that  were  marked  upon  my  map  as  the 
'Cherubim  with  the  Flaming  Sword,' 
and  traversing  a  short  valley  which  lay 
between  them  I  entered  the  Garden  of 
Eden.  I  spent  three  years  in  that  sweet 
spot  as  the  trusted  guest  of  a  tribe  of 
grave  and  gentle  men  whose  whole  world 
is  bounded  by  the  hills  which  circle  them. 
All  beyond  is,  to  them,  the  desert. 

"  In  the  midst  of  the  garden  is  a  group 
of  small  trees  which  is  guarded  night  and 
day.  The  fruit  is  never  touched,  and  where 
it  falls  it  lies.  No  one  ever  enters  the  grove 
except  the  chief,  or  high  priest,  and  his 
family.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  those  trees 
are  the  descendants  of  the  Tree  of  Life, 
but  the  inhabitants  of  the  garden  do  not 
know  it.  All  that  they  know  is  that  their 
fathers,  from  time  immemorial,  have 
guarded  the  grove,  and  that,  for  some 
reason,  it  is  sacred. 

"  For  three  years  I  lived  in  the  shadow 

[  -38  ] 


The  Peach 

of  the  trees,  but  I  never  passed  the  line 
of  guards  which  encircled  them.  Then, 
one  night  in  the  autumn  of  the  fourth 
year,  when  the  ripe  fruit  had  begun  to 
fall,  I  stole  away  from  the  valley,  passed 
the  Cherubim  and  the  Flaming  Sword, 
which  seemed  to  menace  me,  and  once 
more  crossed  the  desert  that  separates 
Eden  from  the  world." 

"  And  the  Tree  of  Life,"  cried  my  un 
cle —  "you  did  not  eat  of  it  after  all?" 

"No,"  answered  Grantaire,  "I  have 
never  tasted  of  it,  but  I  shall  to-night, 
and  so  shall  you." 

He  took  up  the  lamp,  crossed  the  room 
to  a  door,  opened  it,  and  my  uncle  fol 
lowed  him  into  a  rudely  constructed  hot 
house,  framed  with  scantling,  and  covered 
with  the  glass  sash  which  market  garden 
ers  use  for  their  frames. 

The  glass  was  thickly  whitewashed. 
There  was  a  stove  at  one  end;  and  a  litter 
of  matting,  straw,  and  broken  packing- 
boxes  covered  the  floor.  In  the  centre 
stood  a  large  wooden  box  painted  green, 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


and  in  the  box  a  tree  about  four  feet  high 
was  growing. 

My  uncle  had  scarcely  time  to  note 
these  things  when  he  heard  Grantaire  say 
something  in  a  strange  language,  and  a 
woman  came  out  of  the  shadow  and  stood 
in  the  light.  She  was  clothed  in  some 
graceful,  flowing  garment,  her  hands  were 
crossed  upon  her  breast,  and  her  yellow 
hair  hung  about  her  waist.  My  uncle  had 
not  known  that  the  world  possessed  any 
thing  so  beautiful.  She  stood  a  moment, 
knelt  at  my  uncle's  feet,  and  then  went 
back  to  her  seat  in  the  shadow. 

"  I  told  her,"  said  Grantaire,  "  that  you 
and  she  are  the  only  friends  I  have  in  the 
world.  You  may  speak  freely;  she  knows 
only  her  own  tongue." 

"Who  is  she?"  my  uncle  whispered. 

Grantaire  did  not  reply  at  once.  Finally 
he  said:  "She  is  Lilith,  the  daughter  of 
the  high  priest.  She  took  the  fruit  after  I 
had  besought  her  for  two  years,  and  she 
came  across  the  desert  with  me.  Do  you 
think  the  good  God  will  ever  forgive  me? 


The  Peach 

She  brought  away  two  of  the  fruit,  and  I 
planted  the  pits  when  we  reached  Mar 
seilles.  I  was  right,  you  see ;  the  tree  is 
more  like  a  peach  than  an  apple.  Both  of 
the  pits  sprouted  and  grew  until  we  were 
half-way  across  the  Atlantic,  then  one  of 
them  died.  Lilith  and  I  have  watched 
the  other  every  moment  during  the  last 
four  years,  turn  and  turn  about,  and  I 
have  asked  you  to  come  here  to-night, 
for  it  has  borne  fruit  and  the  fruit  is  ripe. 
I  have  beggared  myself,  spent  twenty- 
three  years  of  my  life,  and"  —  glancing 
toward  the  form  in  the  shadow — "have 
been  a  scoundrel,  but  I  have  gained  im 
mortality.  Why  should  I  bother  about  my 
soul  if  it  is  never  to  leave  my  body,  and 
what  can  happen  to  my  body  when  death 
shall  have  no  more  dominion  over  me? " 

"  I  never  exactly  understood,"  said  my 
uncle,  "how  this  fruit  is  to  secure  to  you 
what  you  claim.  How  will  it  make  you 
rich?  How  will  it  give  you  power?  Of 
course,  you  can  start  a  cannery,  but  — " 

Grantaire  turnedonhim. "  What  would 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


you  give  me  if  the  young  wife,  which  the 
newspapers  say  you  have  taken,  were  dy 
ing  and  I  could  save  her  life?  Multiply 
that  sum  by  half  the  population  of  the 
earth,  and  what  do  you  get?  How  much 
would  the  French  Government  have  paid 
me  in  1 870  if  I  could  then  have  made  her 
soldiers  proof  against  the  German  bullets? 
How  much  would  the  life  insurance  com 
panies  of  the  world  give  me  to  render  all 
their  risks  a  nullity?  And  as  for  power  — 
is  there  any  limit  to  him  who  holds  life 
and  death  in  his  hand,  and  who  can  make 
the  history  of  the  world  ?  Come,"  he  cried, 
"the  harvest  is  ripe;  let  us  eat." 

He  walked  toward  the  tree,  still  carry 
ing  the  lamp.  My  uncle  followed,  and 
among  the  shining  leaves  saw  a  highly 
colored  fruit,  somewhat  oblong  in  shape, 
and  very  like  a  peach.  Grantaire  stood  a 
moment  holding  the  lamp  above  his  head 
and  peering  about  the  room  as  though 
dreading  interruption.  The  lamp  shook 
and  flared.  Finally  he  reached  his  hand 
toward  the  fruit,  but  drew  it  back  again, 


The  Peach 

and  taking  his  handkerchief  from  his  poc 
ket  he  wiped  his  forehead.  Then  he  mut 
tered  to  himself:  "And  now,  lest  he  put 
forth  his  hand  and  take  also  of  the  Tree 
of  Life,  and  eat  and  live  forever"  —  and 
then  he  thrust  out  his  hand  quickly  and 
plucked  the  fruit. 

A  low  moan  came  from  the  woman 
crouched  in  the  shadow.  Grantaire,  still 
carrying  the  lamp,  walked  over  to  her  and 
offered  her  the  fruit.  She  shuddered,  drew 
back,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  With 
a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  Grantaire  came 
back  and  held  out  the  fruit  to  my  uncle, 
who  put  his  hands  behind  him  and  shook 
his  head. 

"Coward!"  hissed  Grantaire;  "most 
men  fear  to  die  —  it  appears  that  you  are 
afraid  to  live;"  and  he  raised  the  fruit  to 
his  lips. 

Just  then  there  was  a  faint  rustling  in 
the  straw  at  the  foot  of  the  tree.  Gran 
taire  heard  it  and  glanced  down,  and  my 
uncle,  who  was  watching  his  face,  saw  it 
suddenly  grow  gray. 

[   H3  ] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


Then  my  uncle  looked  down  also  and 
saw  slowly  gliding  out  from  the  straw  a 
little  green  and  black  field  snake  that 
twined  itself  about  the  stem  of  the  tree. 

"Look!"  screamed  Grantaire.  "Satan, 
who  tempted  man  aforetime  to  lose  his 
soul,  is  here  to  see  he  does  not  win  it 
back  again  ! "  And  he  flung  the  lamp, 
with  all  his  force,  straight  at  the  glisten 
ing  coil. 

There  was  a  crash  —  silence — and  then 
all  was  fire.  My  uncle  put  his  arms  across 
his  face  and  burst  through  the  glass. 
Burned  and  cut,  he  turned  and  saw  for  a 
moment  that  Grantaire  was  bending  over 
the  tree,  evidently  trying  to  shield  it  with 
his  body,  and  that  the  woman  was  kneel 
ing  at  his  feet,  her  arms  clasped  about  his 
knees.  Then  the  roof  fell  in,  the  flames 
shot  up,  and  my  uncle  saw  no  more. 

Some  days  after,  my  uncle,  plastered 
and  bandaged,  opened  his  eyes  upon  the 
sweet  face  of  my  aunt,  who  was  bending 
over  him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  faintly. 

[   H4  ] 


The  Peach 

"You  have  been  badly  hurt,"  she  re 
plied.  "You  were  burned  and  — " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  remembernow." 

Then    in    a    moment   he   whispered, 

"  Poor  Grantaire!  I  found  paradise  nearer 

home,"  —  and  he  raised  my  aunt's  hand 

to  his  lips. 


[  145  ] 


THE    SENIOR    READER 


THE    SENIOR    READER 

afrg— ——=============<* 

WHEN  in  May,  1857,  Mr-  Anthony 
Panizzi  —  he  had  not  then  been  knighted 
—  opened  the  great  reading-room  of  the 
British  Museum,  he  walked  down  the 
centre  aisle  with  the  Prince  Consort  and 
the  trustees,  and  spoke  to  a  man  in  a 
shabby  coat  who  stood  near  the  door. 

"Mr.  Basilwood,"  said  Panizzi,  "you 
are  my  senior  reader,  since  you  have  al 
ready  been  twenty  years  in  Burlington 
House,  and  you  shall  have  the  choice  of 
seats.  I  hope,"  he  added,  "  that  this  build 
ing  will  stand  until  your  great  work  is 
finished." 

"  Who  is  that? "  whispered  the  Prince. 

"  Sir,"  answered  Panizzi, "  that  is  Wil 
liam  Basilwood.  Much  learning  hath 
made  him  mad." 

"Dear  me!"  said  the  Prince. 

[    H9  ] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"Quite  so,"  said  Panizzi. 

Basilwood  smiled  at  the  use  of  such  col 
loquial  English  by  a  German  and  an  Ital 
ian,  but  said  nothing,  and  going  up  the 
aisle,  took  the  first  desk  on  the  right,  the 
desk  which  he  was  to  occupy  for  forty 
years.  He  sent  in  his  list  of  books,  and  was 
just  getting  to  work  when  he  heard  his 
name  spoken  at  his  shoulder.  He  turned, 
annoyed  by  the  interruption,  and  saw  the 
Prince. 

"  I  beg  you  not  to  rise,"  said  the  latter. 
"Let  me  sit  by  you  a  moment.  The  old 
est  reader  in  the  Museum  will  doubtless 
take  pity  upon  my  ignorance,  since  I  have 
observed  that  knowledge  breeds  urbanity. 
Tell  me  about  your  work,  and  I  will  try 
to  understand." 

"  Sir,"  said  Basilwood,  gruffly,  "  I  am 
seeking  the  basis  of  human  life." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Prince,  "  I  am  German 
bred  and  simple,  and  I  have  been  taught 
that  life  is  the  breath  of  God." 

"Perhaps,"  replied  Basilwood,  "but  it 
is  not  proven." 

[  15°] 


'The  Senior  Reader 


The  Prince  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  and 
then  he  asked,  softly,  "  Must  all  things  be 
proven?  Is  there  no  such  thing  as  faith?" 

"Sir,"  exclaimed  Basilwood,  "when 
you  speak  to  a  scientific  man  of  c  faith,' 
you  insult  his  intelligence.  While  he  is 
striving  to  present  the  race  with  fa6ts,  you 
ask  him  to  compromise  on  fables.  I  grant 
you  there  are  things  so  trivial  that  the  ab 
solute  truth  concerning  them  is  not  worth 
the  trouble  of  its  establishment.  I  have 
faith  that  you  are  the  husband  of  our  Gra 
cious  Queen,  although  I  was  not  present 
at  the  marriage  ceremony.  But  who,  ex 
cept  the  Queen,  cares  whether  you  are 
or  not?  If  it  were  proven,  would  bread 
be  cheaper,  would  life  be  easier,  would 
death  be  sweeter?" 

The  Prince  flushed  and  half  rose;  then 
he  caught  himself,  resumed  his  seat,  and, 
after  a  moment,  said, — 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Basilwood.  I  should 
not  have  interrupted  your  work.  I  told 
you  I  was  simply  bred.  I  spoke  of  faith 
as  simple  people  do  who  rely  upon  others 

[  is'  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


to  tell  them  the  great  truths  which  they 
themselves  are  incapable  of  finding  out. 
I  come  to  you,  who  for  twenty  years  have 
lived  with  books,  and  ask  you  to  give  me 
the  drop  of  attar  which  you  have  ex 
tracted  from  their  leaves.  It  is  much  to 
ask,  but  life  is  much  to  me.  You  have 
already  forgotten  that  I  am  the  Prince 
Consort;  forget  that  I  am  anything  save 
one  who  seeks  knowledge.  Can  you  blame 
a  thirsty  man  because  he  runs  to  the  foun 
tain,  and  perhaps  stumbles  as  he  runs  ? " 

At  this  Basilwood  bowed,  for  he  had 
once  possessed  manners,  and  said,  "  Sir,  as 
yet  I  have  but  a  theory." 

"And  I  have  many,"  said  the  Prince, 
laughing.  "Tell  me  yours." 

"Have  you  time?"  asked  Basilwood. 

"  I  have  fifteen  minutes,"  the  Prince 
answered,  looking  at  his  watch;  "after 
that  I  must  leave  to  open  a  morgue  or  a 
flower-show,  —  I  have  forgotten  which 
comes  first." 

"  I  can  tell  you  all  my  facts  in  less  time 
than  that,"  said  Basilwood. 

[  15*  ]• 


'The  Senior  Reader 


"  And  you  have  read  for  twenty  years? " 
exclaimed  the  Prince. 

"Yes,"  replied  Basilwood,  "but  much 
that  I  have  read  was  written  upon  'faith,' 
and  does  not  count." 

The  Prince  glanced  at  his  compan 
ion  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  but  said 
nothing. 

"  A  child  is  born  into  the  world,"  re 
sumed  Basilwood,  "well-formed,  lusty, 
and  crying." 

"Yes,"  exclaimed  the  Prince,  "I  can 
vouch  for  the  crying.  Have  you  children, 
Mr.  Basilwood?" 

"  I  believe  so,  sir,"  replied  Basilwood, 
"but  I  do  not  charge  my  mind  with 
such  matters,  and  I  must  look  to  make 
sure." 

He  took  a  worn  memorandum-book 
from  his  pocket,  turned  some  of  its  leaves, 
and  then  exclaimed  : 

"Of  course  I  have  a  child,  Margaret. 
Here  is  the  entry."  And  he  read  from  the 
book: 
'•'''January  3,  1857.  Museum  bought  copy 

[  -53  ] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"of  Wicked  Bible  from  Stevens  for  eighteen 
"guineas.  In  case  24*2,  41.  Daughter  born." 

"That  proves  it,"  he  said,  closing  the 
book.  "  Margaret  is  my  daughter,  and  she 
was  born  January  3,  1857." 

"Dear  me!"  exclaimed  the  Prince. 

"That  is  what  you  remarked  when 
Panizzi  told  you  I  was  mad,"  said  Basil- 
wood. 

"  But  we  left  that  new-born  child  cry 
ing,"  said  the  Prince,  quickly.  "Should 
we  not  return  to  it  ? " 

"That  child  has  life  in  him,"  resumed 
Basilwood.  "He  is  'quick,'  as  they  used 
to  say,  and  as  the  law-writers  say  now. 
The  question  is,  Where  is  the  seat  of  life? 
In  a  week  his  nurse  bites  off  his  finger 
nails  so  that  they  may  grow  thin.  He  still 
lives.  Soon  they  cut  his  hair.  He  does  not 
miss  it.  As  he  grows  older  he  loses  a  foot, 
a  leg,  an  arm,  and  still  he  lives.  The  seat 
of  life  has  not  been  overturned.  Then  we 
come  to  what  are  vulgarly  called  '  the  vi 
tal  organs,'  and  we  find  that  a  man  has 
lived  with  a  crowbar  driven  through  his 

[   -54] 


The  Senior  Reader 


brain,  with  a  bullet  through  the  heart, 
with  the  lungs  eaten  up,  with  the  bowels 
perforated,  with  the  stomach  removed. 
Where  is  the  centre  of  vitality?  Where 
is  the  pin-point  in  the  human  frame  that 
death  touches  to  stop  the  working  mech 
anism  which  we  call  life  ?  If  we  can  find 
it,  perhaps  we  can  guard  it." 

"Mr.  Basilwood,"  said  the  Prince,  ris 
ing,  "  I  fear  that  my  time  is  up,  but  there 
is  one  fa<5t  that  I  can  give  you,  and  that 
is,  that  the  heart  is  not  the  seat  of  life.  I 
know  a  man,  a  strong  man,  one  who  helps 
to  make  the  laws  of  this  realm,  who  eats 
and  sleeps  and  walks  and  talks — yes,  he 
talks  a  great  deal,  and  yet  he  has  no  heart 
at  all." 

"That  must  be  Colonel  Sibthorp,"said 
Basilwood,  with  a  chuckle.  "The  papers 
say  that  he  cut  your  allowance  in  the 
Commons  from  fifty  to  thirty  thousand 
pounds." 

The  Prince  smiled  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "  Good-by,"  he  said,  "  and  be  sure 
to  send  me  the  first  eleven  copies  of  your 

[  '55  ] 


T'/ie  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


work.  That  will  be  one  each  for  the 
Queen,  myself,  and  the  children." 

"The  breath  of  God,  indeed,"  said  Ba- 
silwood  to  himself  as  the  Prince  walked 
away.  "  I  have  lost  half  an  hour."  And 
he  fell  to  his  work. 

II 

P  OR  some  years  Basilwood  was  known 
at  the  Museum  as  "the  man  that  the 
Prince  spoke  with  ;"  then  one  morning 
a  charming  girl  of  eighteen  led  him 
slowly  up  the  aisle,  took  off  his  wraps, 
found  his  spectacles,  put  a  shilling  in  his 
pocket,  kissed  him,  and,  smiling,  went 
away.  In  the  evening  she  came  to  fetch 
him,  and  from  that  day  he  was  spoken  of 
by  the  doorkeepers,  the  messengers,  the 
confirmed  readers,  and  even  by  Sir  An 
thony  himself,  as  "  Margaret's  father." 

One  evening  she  was  a  little  late,  and 
came  into  the  Museum  with  cheeks  aglow 
and  eyes  sparkling. 

"  Daddy,"  she  whispered,  as  with  eager 
fingers  she  helped  him  gather  up  his 

[  156  ] 


T'he  Senior  Reader 


notes,  "this  has  been  the  most  beautiful 
day  of  my  life.  You  love  me,  don't  you, 
dear?"  and  she  pushed  the  white  hair 
back  from  his  forehead  and  kissed  him. 
They  took  an  omnibus  and  crossed  to  the 
Surrey  side.  She  held  his  hand  the  whole 
way  and  did  not  speak,  but  her  face  was  as 
that  of  an  angel. 

At  dinner  she  was  very  talkative. 
"Daddy,"  she  said,  after  a  short  pause, 
"  how  old  was  my  mother  when  you  and 
she  were  married?" 

Basilwood  did  not  answer. 

"Was  she  very  beautiful?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "and  you  are  very 
like  her." 

Her  cheeks  flamed,  and  springing  up 
she  ran  over  to  him  and  put  her  arms 
about  his  neck. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad,"  she  cried.  "I 
wish  to  be  very  beautiful  indeed." 

"Your  mother,"  said  Basilwood,  "was 
a  good  woman,  but  she  died  during  the 
week  that  the  Offer  library  was  sold  at 
Southby's.  I  missed  two  days  of  the  sale." 

[  '57  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
Margaret  ran  to  it,  opened  it,  and  went 
out.  There  was  whispering  in  the  hall, 
and  then  in  walked  a  strapping  young 
fellow  with  a  flower  in  his  button-hole 
and  the  light  of  love  in  his  eyes. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Basilwood,"  he  said,  hold 
ing  out  his  hand;  "how  goes  the  Great 
Work?" 

"  Sir,"  said  Basilwood, "  who  the  devil 
are  you?" 

The  question  seemed  to  faze  the  young 
man,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  he  said.  "I 
am  Philip  Kennet,  for  whom  you  stood 
godfather  down  in  Berkshire,  twenty  odd 
years  ago ;  and  I  have  been  to  see  your 
daughter  and  you  ever  so  many  times,  and 
have  read  no  end  of  copy  for  you,  and  I 
love  Margaret  and  she  loves  me.  Will 
you  give  her  to  me,  Mr.  Basilwood?" 

Then  Margaret  came  in  and  found  the 
men  confronting  each  other. 

"Who  is  this  man?"  asked  Basilwood. 

"Oh,  father,"  said  Margaret,  "is  it  as 

[  158  ] 


'The  Senior  Reader 


bad  as  that?"  And  she  went  to  him  and 
took  his  hand. 

"Philip,  dear,"  she  said  to  the  young 
man,  who  was  no  longer  smiling,  "he 
does  n't  remember  even  you.  You  see  how 
impossible  it  is  that  I  should  leave  him." 

"Leave  him!"  he  cried;  "I  don't  ask 
you  to  leave  him.  There  will  be  always 
a  place  for  him.  Only  give  me  the  right 
to  take  care  of  you  both.  He  shall  have 
all  the  books  he  wants.  Why  should  you 
be  slaving  in  that  shop  when  I  — " 

She  put  her  hand  over  his  mouth. 

"  Margaret,"  asked  Basilwood,  "is  this 
true?" 

"Is  what  true,  father?" 

"  That  this  is  Sir  George  Kennet's  son? " 

"Yes,  father." 

"And  has  he  been  here  often,  as  he 
says?" 

She  smiled  sadly  and  replied,  "Yes, 
very  often." 

"And  do  you  love  him?" 

She  blushed,  but  answered  bravely,  "  I 
love  him  next  to  you." 

[  '59  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"Then,  sir,"  said  Basilwood,  "  I  hope  I 
know  how  to  be  unselfish,  and  if  all  goes 
well,  you  may  have  her  on  the  day  my 
book  is  finished." 

Ill 

IT  was  Jubilee  year  and  a  dreary  day  in 
December.  Basilwood  left  his  desk  at 
one  o'clock  and  went  to  the  Museum  res 
taurant.  He  walked  very  slowly  and  leaned 
heavily  upon  his  stick.  When  he  had 
taken  the  chair  which  a  waiter  placed  for 
him,  he  drew  a  parcel  from  his  pocket, 
opened  it,  and  began  to  eat  his  bread  and 
cheese. 

A  little  man,  made  noticeable  by  a 
large  watch-chain  and  a  brown  wig, 
came  in,  looked  nervously  about  the 
room,  and  then  came  over  to  the  senior 
reader. 

"Mr.  Basilwood,"  he  asked,  "do  you 
happen  to  know  much  about  twins?" 

Basilwood  shook  his  head. 

"Well,"  continued  the  stranger,  "I 
can  tell  you  this  much.  The  life  of  a  twin 

[  '60  ] 


*fhe  Senior  Reader 


is  hell  upon  earth.  What 's  that  you  are 
eating,  —  bread  and  cheese?  Join  me  in 
a  pork  pie.  They  are  very  good  here. 
Waiter,  a  pork  pie  and  two  mugs  of 
bitter." 

They  took  their  seats  at  a  table  behind 
the  door. 

"Mr.  Basilwood,"  resumed  the  stran 
ger,  "  I  am  told  that  you  are  the  senior 
reader  in  the  Museum,  and  that  you  have 
given  more  than  sixty  years  to  the  prep 
aration  of  a  work  upon  the  physical  basis 
of  life.  My  name  is  Gilbert,  Theodore 
Gilbert,  and  if  ever  a  man  needed  coun 
sel,  I  'm  the  man." 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  asked  Ba 
silwood. 

"You  can  have  another  pint  of  bitter," 
replied  Gilbert. 

"Granted,"  said  Basilwood. 

"My  father,"  continued  Gilbert, 
"when  he  died,  left  three  things  behind 
that  raised  the  devil.  He  left  twins  and 
a  home-made  will.  The  will  said  that 
David  —  that 's  my  brother  —  and  I  were 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


to  have  three  thousand  a  year  each  until 
one  of  us  died,  and  then  the  survivor  was 
to  have  the  pot,  a  million  or  more.  That 
made  quite  a  race,  and,  being  twins,  we 
started  even.  We  lived  together  fora  time 
in  the  old  house,  but  it  finally  got  onto 
our  nerves.  It  is  no  sport  to  dine  with  a 
man  when  you  stand  between  him  and  a 
million.  We  used  to  carve  by  turns,  and 
sometimes  we  would  exchange  plates  and 
then  match  a  coin  to  determine  which 
should  take  the  first  mouthful.  I  used  to 
have  my  tooth-powder  analyzed  every 
Monday.  After  a  year  or  two,  this  got  to 
be  a  bit  dreary.  One  night  I  went  into 
the  dining-room  early,  and  there  was  Da 
vid  with  the  salt-cellar  in  one  hand  and 
a  little  blue-paper  parcel  in  the  other. 
When  he  saw  me  he  turned  as  white  as 
his  shirt  and  threw  the  blue  paper  into 
the  grate.  Then  he  stood  and  grinned. 
He  didn't  speak.  He  simply  grinned. 
I  was  at  him  in  a  moment  with  the  carv 
ing-knife,  and  I  slashed  him  across  the 
face.  He  went  down,  and  his  head  hit  the 

[  '62  ] 


'The  Senior  Reader 


base-board.  He  bled  beautifully.  In  a  week 
he  came  down-stairs  with  a  black  plaster 
from  the  corner  of  his  nose  to  his  chin. 

" '  There,  damn  you,'  I  cried, '  they  can 
tell  us  apart  now.' 

"'I've  had  enough  of  this,'  he  said, 
and  we  parted.  He  went  to  San  Francisco, 
in  America,  and  I  stayed  here.  When  he 
went  out  of  the  house  he  turned  and  shook 
his  fist  at  me. 

"'Curse  you,'  he  said,  'I'll  outlive 
you.' 

"'Not  if  there  is  anything  in  early 
hours  and  dry  feet,'  I  replied,  and  I  took 
a  cab  for  Sir  Andrew  Ashley's.  He' s  the 
chap  that  used  to  tend  the  Queen  when 
she  was  strengthening  the  succession.  I 
told  him  about  the  will  and  about  my 
twin  brother,  and  then  I  asked  him 
plump,  'What  are  my  chances?' 

"  He  played  with  his  glasses  a  moment 
and  then  went  to  the  door. 

"'William,'  he  said  to  the  footman, 
'  if  the  Chief  Justice  calls,  beg  him  to  wait, 
I  cannot  be  disturbed.' 

[  163  ] 


"When  I  heard  this,  I  fished  about  in 
my  pocket  for  three  more  sovereigns. 

"'Mr.  Gilbert,'  he  said,  when  he  had 
resumed  his  seat,  ca  curious  law  governs 
double  births.  Twins  are  apt  to  resemble 
each  other  not  only  in  features  and  dispo 
sition,  but  also  in  constitution.  They  are 
like  two  watches  of  the  same  make,  which, 
if  wound  up  together,  will  run  down  to 
gether.  So  I  say  to  you,  putting  aside  ac 
cidents  and  acute  diseases,  the  chances  are 
that  you  and  your  brother  will  die  about 
the  same  time.  I  trust  this  is  satisfactory. 
Good  morning,  Mr.  Gilbert.  It  looks  like 
rain.' 

"  I  went  the  rounds  of  the  doctors,  and 
they  all  told  me  the  same  thing.  'You 
and  your  brother  will  die  at  the  same 
time.'  About  ten  years  ago  I  came  here 
in  the  hope  that  I  could  learn  something 
from  the  books.  I  have  read  more  than 
a  thousand,  but  have  found  nothing  that 
tells  me  how  to  live.  Oh,  sir,  in  all  your 
sixty  years  of  research,  have  you  hit  upon 
the  secret  of  life  ? " 


The  Senior  Reader 


Basilwood  rose  slowly  and  leaned  upon 
the  back  of  his  chair. 

"  Mr.  Gilbert,"  he  said,  with  great  de 
liberation,  "it  is  written  that  reading 
makes  a  full  man.  I  have  read  sixty  years, 
and  on  top  of  that  I  have  now  two  pints 
of  bitter.  I  am  very  full.  I  will  see  you 
to-morrow." 

"One  moment,"  said  Gilbert.  "Hav 
ing  exhausted  the  doclors  and  literature, 
last  night  I  tried  the  fakirs.  I  went  to 
the  Hindoo  in  Gower  Street.  He  came 
over  for  the  Jubilee.  He  told  me  I  might 
ask  him  one  question,  and  I  said,  'Tell 
me  the  date  of  my  death.' 

"  He  laughed  and  said,  '  I  feared  you 
would  ask  me  some  hard  question,  some 
thing  about  a  woman.  You  have  a  twin 
brother.  You  will  both  die  at  the  same 
instant.  If  you  look  at  your  left  forearm 
you  will  see  the  date  of  your  death." 

"Well,"  said  Basilwood,  "what  did 
you  find  ? " 

Gilbert  stripped  up  his  sleeve,  and  on 
the  white  flesh  of  his  arm,  in  scarlet  letters, 

t  '65  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


were  the  words,  "January  first,  1897." 

Basilwood  dipped  the  corner  of  his 
napkin  in  his  water-glass  and  scrubbed 
the  letters.  They  only  became  brighter. 

"No  go,"  said  Gilbert.  "I've  tried 
everything,  from  Pear's  soap  to  sapolio." 

Then  his  whole  manner  changed  sud 
denly. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Basilwood,"  he  cried,  "I 
am  going  to  die  in  ten  days.  I  came  to 
you  as  a  last  resort.  You  can't  help  me 
to  live,  it  seems.  You  can  help  me  to 
die.  I  have  sat  near  you  for  ten  years. 
Sit  by  me  the  last  night  of  my  life.  It  is 
awful  to  drift  out  beyond  the  horizon  all 
alone.  You  have  your  daughter.  I  have 
watched  her  for  years.  I  have  seen  her 
change  from  a  laughing  girl  to  a  woman 
with  white  hairs  above  her  temples.  I 
have  seen  her  give  her  life,  her  hope,  her 
love  to  you,  and  some  day  she  will  close 
your  eyes.  But  I  must  die  alone,  unless 
you  come  and  sit  by  me.  I  will  promise 
to  die  like  a  gentleman.  F  11  make  no  fuss, 
but  it  will  help  me  when  I  pass  the  line 
[  -66] 


The  Senior  Reader 


and  sink,  sink  to  God  knows  where,  if  I 
see  a  hand  of  some  one  of  my  race  waving 
me  a  farewell." 

Basilwood  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Mr. ,  excuse  me,  but  your  name 

has  escaped  me,"  —  and  then  he  lurched 
a  bit  and  caught  his  chair,  —  "I  am  the 
senior  reader  here  —  I  have  read  for  sixty 
years  —  the  Prince  Consort  spoke  to  me 
in  fifty-seven.  He  spoke  nonsense,  but  I 
felt  his  royal  breath  on  my  ear — the  di 
vine  afflatus  —  I  have  written  eighteen 
parts  of  my  work,  and  I  have  a  notion 
that  the  nineteenth  part  would  fit  your 
case.  Can't  you  postpone  your  death  about 
a  year  ? "  And  he  leaned  over  his  chair 
and  moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue. 

Then  Margaret  came  into  the  restau 
rant. 

"Oh,  daddy,"  she  cried.  "How  you 
frightened  me.  I  feared  you  had  gone 
home  alone." 

Basilwood  braced  himself  between  his 
stick  and  the  chair  and  smiled  vacantly. 
Gilbert  came  up  to  Margaret  and  took 
off  his  hat.  [  167  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  "  your 
father  has  promised  to  spend  the  last  night 
of  the  year  with  me.  Here  is  my  ad 
dress."  And  he  gave  her  an  envelope. 

IV 

\JN  the  afternoon  of  December  31 
Margaret  came  to  the  Museum  rather 
earlier  than  usual.  She  brought  a  hand 
bag  with  her,  and  she  reminded  her  fa 
ther  that  they  were  to  pass  the  night  with 
Mr.  Gilbert.  "  He  says  in  his  letter,"  she 
explained,  "that  we  are  to  go  to  Green 
wich  and  dine  at  the  'Ship.'  We  are  to 
have  the  very  best  dinner  we  can  order, 
and  we  are  to  drink  his  health  in  a  bottle 
of  champagne.  There  was  a  five-pound 
note  in  the  letter  'for  his  treat,'  he  says. 
After  dinner  we  are  to  take  a  cab  and 
drive  to  his  house,  which  is  in  Black- 
heath,  just  beyond  the  Observatory." 

They  went  by  boat  to  Greenwich,  and 
they  had  their  dinner  at  the  "  Ship."  The 
fire  in  the  grate,  the  lights,  the  clear  tur 
tle,  the  turbot,  the  pheasant  in  a  casserole, 
[  '68  ] 


The  Senior  Reader 


the  forced  asparagus,  the  vintage  wine,  the 
toasted  cracker,  and  the  gorgonzola,  the 
demi-tasse,  the  petit-verre,  the  long,  dark 
perfe<5to,  and  the  waiter  made  havoc  with 
the  five-pound  note. 

"Margaret,"  said  Basilwood,  "when 
'  The  Work '  is  finished,  we  shall  dine  like 
this  every  night,  and  if  there  is  anything 
you  wish  you  shall  have  it.  You  know 
me.  I  Ve  never  denied  you  anything  yet, 
have  I?" 

She  looked  away,  and  then  she  said, 
"No,  daddy,  you  have  been  very  sweet 
to  me."  But  as  she  spoke,  her  hands  went 
up  to  her  face,  and  she  rose  quickly  and 
crossed  over  to  the  window. 

The  waiter  went  out  and  closed  the 
door  softly. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Basil- 
wood;  "does  the  smoke  bother  you?" 

"No,"  she  said  presently,  but  with 
out  turning.  "  Here  is  the  cab.  We  must 
be  going." 

After  a  drive  of  ten  minutes  they 
stopped  while  a  gate  was  opened;  then 

t  -69  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


they  went  on,  up  a  driveway  bordered 
by  pines,  and  stopped  before  the  house. 
The  front  door  opened,  and  an  elderly 
woman  came  quickly  down  the  steps. 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Basilwood  and  his  daugh 
ter  ? "  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Margaret. 

"Thank  God,"  exclaimed  the  woman, 
and  she  led  them  into  the  house. 

"You  are  to  go  up  at  once,"  she  said 
to  Basilwood,  "and  the  young  lady  is  to 
stay  here  with  me.  He  is  in  the  room  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs.  The  first  door.  You 
can't  miss  it.  I  am  the  housekeeper." 

Basilwood  went  slowly  up  the  stairs  and 
knocked  with  his  stick  on  the  first  door. 

"Come  in,"  cried  a  shrill  voice,  and 
Basilwood  turned  the  knob. 

Gilbert  was  in  bed,  propped  up  by  the 
pillows.  His  wig  was  off  and  his  bald  head 
resembled  a  huge  egg.  His  cheeks  and 
temples  were  sunken,  but  his  eyes  were  un 
pleasantly  bright.  His  baldness  rendered 
his  ears  unduely  prominent.  A  black  plas 
ter  made  a  line  from  the  corner  of  his  nose 


The  Senior  Reader 


down  under  his  chin.  His  hands  lay  out 
side  the  bedclothes,  and  the  sleeve  of  his 
left  arm  being  rolled  up,  Basilwood  could 
see  the  scarlet  letters  which  formed  the 
words  "January  first,  1897,"  an^  instinc 
tively  he  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the  man 
tel.  ' 

"Plenty  of  time,"  cried  Gilbert;  "the 
clock  is  right;  I  set  it  this  noon  by  the 
Observatory  time-ball.  I  Ve  got  two  hours 
and  a  half  yet  before  I  let  go  and  float 
off  to  meet  brother  David  somewhere  in 
the  blue.  The  evening  papers  are  on  the 
table,  with  the  whiskey  and  the  cigars. 
Did  you  bring  your  slippers  ?  Never  mind 
— mine  are  by  the  bed.  Put  them  on  and 
make  yourself  comfortable." 

Basilwood  mixed  himself  a  glass  of 
grog,  and  while  he  was  busied  with  it  he 
heard  a  chuckle  from  the  bed. 

He  turned  quickly.  "  What  is  there  to 
laugh  at  ? "  he  demanded. 

Gilbert's  chuckle  grew  to  a  laugh,  and 
then  to  a  shout.  His  face  turned  purple, 
and  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"Stop  it,"  cried  Basilwood.  "It  isn't 
decent  for  a  man  in  your  situation  to 
carry  on  like  that.  Stop  it,  I  say,  or  I  will 
leave  you." 

"Oh,"  gasped  Gilbert,  "it 's  great.  To 
think  of  the  time  and  money  I  have  was 
ted  on  the  doctors,  the  library,  diet,  and  a 
quiet  life,  and  then  to  have  the  solution  of 
the  whole  matter  pop  into  my  mind  this 
morning  while  I  was  shaving!  When  a 
thing  comes  to  you  like  that,  it  makes 
you  jump.  I  slashed  myself  with  the  razor 
j  ust  as  I  cut  David  with  the  carving-knife. 
They  won't  be  able,  after  all,  to  tell  us 
apart  in  the  hereafter." 

Basilwood  shortened  his  stick  in  his 
hand  and  came  up  to  the  bed. 

"If  you  have  the  secret,"  he  hissed, 
"you  had  better  tell  it  to  me,  or  you  will 
never  see  midnight." 

Gilbert  began  to  laugh  again.  "Put 
up  your  stick,"  he  said  presently.  "  My 
truth  is  like  all  truths,  very  simple.  I  am 
to  die  on  January  i,  1897,  just  as  *he 
day  begins ;  and  David  is  to  die  at  the 

[   '72  ] 


The  Senior  Reader 


same  instant;  but  when  will  that  be  for 
him  in  San  Francisco?  It  will  be  four 
o'clock  yesterday  afternoon.  He  will  die 
in  1 896  and  I  in  1 897.  Which  of  us  will 
be  the  survivor?  Which  of  us  will  get 

the  pot?  Damn  him,  I  '11  beat  him  by  a 

»j 
year. 

"It's  a  queer  thing,"  he  continued, 
"  that  the  meridian  of  Greenwich  passes 
through  the  hall  of  this  house,  and  this 
room  is  the  birthplace  of  the  days." 

Basilwood  went  back  to  his  seat  and 
took  up  his  glass. 

"  If  I  understand  you,  Mr.  Gilbert,"  he 
said,  "  life  is  simply  a  question  of  longi 
tude?" 

"No,"  replied  Gilbert.  "The  date  of 
your  death  is  a  question  of  longitude. 
Life  itself  is  the  breath  of  God." 

"Where  have  I  heard  that  before?" 
said  Basilwood,  musingly.  There  was  si 
lence  in  the  chamber  for  some  time,  and 
then  Gilbert  spoke. 

"  Will  you  let  your  daughter  come  up 
here  for  a  few  moments,  and  will  you  step 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


into  the  hall  when  she  comes?  I  have 
something  to  say  to  her." 

Basilwood  went  to  the  door  and  called 
Margaret.  She  came  running  up  the 
stairs.  As  she  entered  the  room,  her  fa 
ther  left  it. 

She  stood  staring  at  the  apparition  in 
the  bed. 

"Miss  Basilwood,"  said  Gilbert,  "I 
am  sorry  to  put  you  to  all  this  bother, 
but  I  have  very  little  time  and  I  wish 
to  tell  you  something.  Please  be  seated." 

She  shook  her  head  and  took  a  step 
toward  the  door. 

"  For  ten  years  I  have  seen  you,  on  each 
open  day,  bring  your  father  to  the  Mu 
seum.  I  have  followed  you  to  your  home 
across  the  river,  and,  forgive  me,  I  have 
followed  you  to  the  shop." 

Margaret  came  forward  swiftly.  "You 
won't  tell  him  how  hard  I  work?"  she 
whispered,  pointing  toward  the  door. 

"No,  my  dear,"  said  Gilbert,  "but  I 
wish  that  I  had  my  hat  on  so  that  I 
might  take  it  off  to  you." 

[   '74] 


'The  Senior  Reader 


Margaret  smiled. 

"  That 's  right,"  said  Gilbert.  "  I  never 
saw  you  smile  before.  It  becomes  you. 
I  hope  that  from  this  on  you-  will  smile 
very  often.  I  shall  die  to-night,  and  I 
have  made  my  will.  I  have  left  to  you  a 
fortune  which  I  never  had.  I  hope  that 
it  will  bring  happiness  to  you.  I  wish  that 
I  had  known  you  when  I  was  a  young 
man.  If  I  had,  I  should  not  be  so  un 
certain  where  I  am  to  go  at  midnight.  I 
should  like  it  if  you  would  say  cgood- 
by'  to  me;  just  those  words  would  help 
me  very  much  when  I  cross  the  border." 

Margaret  came  to  the  bedside  and  put 
out  her  hand. 

"Good-by,"  she  said. 

"There,  there,"  said  Gilbert,  "I've 
made  you  cry  when  I  wished  to  make 
you  happy.  Go,  now,  and  ask  your  father 
to  come." 

Margaret  left  the  room  and  Basilwood 
came  in. 

"  I  have  almost  two  hours  yet,"  said 
Gilbert,  "and  I  think  that  I  will  take  a 

[   175   ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


nap,  but  you  must  certainly  wake  me  just 
before  twelve.  I  want  to  see  the  end  of 
this  thing." 

He  lay  back  on  the  pillows  and  fell 
asleep  instantly. 

Basilwood  took  his  seat  by  the  fire  and 
mixed  another  glass  of  grog.  He  sipped 
it  slowly,  and  when  it  was  finished,  his 
head  fell  forward  and  he,  too,  slept.  He 
was  awakened  by  the  striking  of  the 
clock.  Gilbert  was  sitting  up  in  bed 
counting  the  strokes.  When  he  reached 
twelve  he  paused  a  moment,  then  he 
cried,  "Ah,  David,  my  lad,  is  that  you? 
Have  you  been  waiting  long?  What  did 
you  have  in  that  blue  paper?" 

Then  his  hands  flew  up,  and  he  fell 
back  on  the  pillows. 

Basilwood  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
Gilbert's  left  arm  lay  across  his  breast. 
The  scarlet  letters  began  to  fade  away 
to  pink,  to  lavender,  to  nothing.  When 
they  had  entirely  disappeared,  Basilwood 
glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  five  minutes 
past  twelve.  He  opened  the  window,  blew 

[  176  ] 


'The  Senior  Reader 


out  the  candle,  drained  his  glass,  and  then 
went  slowly  down  the  stairs. 


r  OR  a  fortnight  Basilwood  kept  away 
from  the  Museum;  then  he  returned  to 
his  desk  and  his  occupation.  At  the  lunch 
eon  hour  he  walked  slowly  and  with  diffi 
culty  to  the  newspaper  room  in  the  wing. 
He  consulted  a  file  of  the  San  Francisco 
Chronicle  and  carried  the  issue  of  Janu 
ary  i  back  to  his  desk,  as  his  privilege 
permitted. 

When  he  had  taken  his  seat,  he  looked 
at  the  index  on  the  first  page  of  the  pa- 
der,  and  then  turned  to  the  "  Death  No 
tices."  The  first  was  this: 
"  Gilbert.  Sudden /y,  on  the  afternoon  of  De- 
"  cember  3 1 ,  David  Gilbert,  aged  sixty -four 
"years.  New  York  papers  please  copy." 

"My  God,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  man 
was  right!" 

He  sat  for  a  long  time  motionless  and 
with  closed  eyes.  Then  he  opened  his 

[    177  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


desk  and  took  out  the  notes  for  his  book 
which  had  accumulated  during  the  last 
few  months.  He  ran  them  slowly  over. 

"  Sixty  years  of  work,"  he  muttered, 
"and  all  wrong." 

He  began  tearing  the  slips  into  small 
pieces.  It  took  some  time  to  tear  them 
all,  and  the  litter  nearly  filled  the  desk. 
He  closed  the  lid  and  then,  taking  a  large 
sheet  of  the  Museum  paper,  he  wrote: 

"To 

HER  MAJESTY  THE  QUEEN: 
"  The  Prince  Consort  was  right.  Life  is  the 
"Breath  of  God. 

WILLIAM  BASILWOOD, 

Senior  Reader" 

At  five  o'clock  a  hansom  stopped  be 
fore  the  Museum  gate  and  a  woman  and 
a  man  got  out.  She  was  dressed  in  black, 
with  white  collar  and  wrist-bands,  the 
livery  of  the  shop.  Her  hair  was  tinged 
with  gray,  but  there  was  a  charming  color 
in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were  spark 
ling.  The  man  was  bearded  and  deeply 

[  -78  ] 


Senior  Reader 


tanned,  and  so  tall  that  he  leaned  a  trifle 
that  his  companion  might  take  his  arm. 

"  Philip,"  she  said,  as  they  passed  the 
gate,  "  I  have  prayed  for  this  without 
ceasing,  but  the  book  is  not  yet  finished." 

"  Book  or  no  book,  I  shall  not  go  away 
again,"  he  replied. 

They  went  up  the  steps  and  through 
the  hall.  At  the  entrance  to  the  reading- 
room  she  left  him. 

"  Don't  speak  to  father  when  he  comes 
out,  dear,"  she  said.  "  He  won't  know 
you,  and  perhaps  won't  even  notice  you," 
and  then  she  went  in. 

"Good  evening,  miss,"  said  the  door 
keeper.  "You  are  a  bit  late.  There  he  is, 
sound  asleep  at  his  desk,  waiting  for  you." 

She  went  quickly  up  the  aisle,  smiling 
and  nodding  to  one  or  two  that  she  knew, 
and  put  her  hand  on  her  father's  shoulder. 

"  Come,  daddy,"  she  said ;  but  he  did 
not  move,  and  so  she  shook  his  arm  gent 
ly.  "  It  is  time  to  go  home,  daddy,"  she 
said,  and  she  leaned  over  and  looked  into 
his  face. 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


A  woman's  cry  rang  through  the  vast 
room  which  is  sacred  to  silence. 

The  senior  reader  had  already  gone 
home. 

The  Great  Work  was  finished. 


[  180] 


SOME    OLD    FAMILIES 


SOME    OLD    FAMILIES 


JHLlGH  up  in  the  West  Virginia  moun 
tains,  close  to  the  Kentucky  line,  is  the 
flag-station  Catamount.  Here  a  lumber 
company  has  built  a  great  saw-mill,  a 
planing-mill,  dry-kilns,  and  twenty  white 
cottages  for  the  superintendent,  the  land- 
looker,  the  sawyer,  the  storekeeper,  and 
the  other  head  men.  Across  the  bridge, 
which  spans  the  Tug  River,  are  the  board 
ing-houses  and  the  dwellings  of  the  four 
hundred  hands,  all  of  whom  are  more  or 
less  white.  No  black  labor  is  employed. 
One  man  performs  the  duties  of  telegraph 
operator  and  station  agent.  His  name  is 
Bill.  He  was  born  in  war  times,  when 
there  was  much  confusion,  and  he  never 
had  a  surname.  His  account  at  the  store 
reads,  "Bill,  Dr." 

One  night,  early  in  November,  Bill 

[  -83  ] 


T'he  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


came  out  of  his  cabin  by  the  track.  As 
he  stood  on  the  platform  he  faced  the 
river,  the  mountains,  covered  with  tim 
ber  to  their  summits,  and  the  full,  round 
moon  which  topped  them  and  sent  a 
shiver  of  silver  across  the  sluggish  stream. 

"  God,"  said  Bill,  as  he  stretched 
his  arms  and  yawned,  "I  wisht  I  was 
rich." 

As  there  was  no  response  from  the 
bridge,  the  white  cottages,  the  mills,  the 
river,  or  the  moon,  Bill  relapsed  into  si 
lence  and  walked  down  the  platform.  At 
the  end  he  turned. 

"God,"  he  exclaimed  (most  of  Bill's 
sentences  began  that  way),  "there's  a 
light  in  the  boss's  window.  He  must  have 
gone  to  bed  and  forgot  it." 

Bill  went  down  the  road  and  knocked 
at  the  office  door. 

"Come,"  cried  some  one  inside,  and 
Bill  opened  the  door. 

"Ah,  Bill,"  said  the  superintendent, 
"is  that  you?  I  was  just  going  over  to 
see  you.  Young  Mr.  Watkins,  the  presi- 

[  -84] 


Some  Old  Families 


dent's  son,  is  coming  down  with  a  private 
car  on  the  eleven  four.  His  car  will  be 
cut  out  here  and  will  go  on  the  switch. 
It 's  all  clear,  is  it  not  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Bill,  "the  switch  is  clear, 
but  why  is  he  comin'  here  ?  Aint  Kala- 
mazoo  good  enough  fer  him  ? " 

The  superintendent  smiled.  "  Why  are 
you  here,  Bill  ?  " 

"  'Cause  I  aint  never  had  money  enough 
to  git  away,"  replied  Bill;  and  then,  re 
alizing  that  his  sentence  was  incomplete, 
he  added,  after  an  interval,  "God." 

"  I  wonder  why  /  am  here,"  said  the 
superintendent,  musingly. "  I  have  a  smat 
tering  of  Latin  and  Greek.  I  speak  French 
and  Spanish,  and  I  am  not  entirely  unac 
quainted  with  Shakespeare  and  the  mu 
sical  glasses  —  when  they  are  full  —  and 
yet  here  I  am." 

They  sat  gazing  into  the  fire,  thinking 
of  very  different  things,  when  there  came, 
floating  up  the  valley,  the  whistle  of  the 
eleven  four.  The  superintendent  lit  a  lan 
tern  and  the  two  went  out,  up  the  road, 

[  185  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


across  the  tracks,  and  stood  upon  the  plat 
form. 

Far  down  in  the  west  they  saw  a  light 
that,  as  they  watched  it,  grew  larger  and 
brighter.  Soon  they  felt,  rather  than  heard, 
a  humming  in  the  air.  The  blur  of  sound 
resolved  itself  into  a  rhythmic  beat,  and 
then  lost  itself  in  a  roar.  The  light  spread 
and  tipped  the  black  forest  on  either  side; 
a  white  jet  of  steam  shot  up  from  the 
glare;  two  shrill  whistles  set  the  echoes 
flying;  the  great,  hot,  panting  engine 
staggered  past  them,  and  with  groaning 
brakes  the  eleven  four  arrived  on  time. 

The  conductor  jumped  from  the  for 
ward  platform. 

"Bill,"  he  said,  "we've  got  a  private 
on  the  end.  I  '11  run  ahead  and  kick  it 
back.  All  clear?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bill.  "Who's  'leaed?" 

"Didn't  hear,"  replied  the  conductor. 
"Mighty  close,  but  reckon  it's  Bryan." 

"God,"  said  Bill,  "that's  two  dollars 
for  one.  P'r'aps  I  kin  git  away  from  here 
now." 

[  -86] 


Some  Old  Families 


When  the  private  car  came  back  on 
the  switch,  the  superintendent  stood  at 
its  steps  with  his  lantern.  Soon  the  door 
opened  and  a  boy  in  knickerbockers  came 
out.  He  was  tall  and  ruddy  and  smiling. 

"  Is  this  Catamount  ? "  he  asked. 

"It  is,"  replied  the  superintendent. 
"You  are  Mr.  Watkins,  are  you  not?" 

"Well,"  said  the  boy,  "I  am  Tom 
Watkins.  Mr.  Watkins  is  in  Kalamazoo. 
I  'm  nothing  but  his  son.  I  Vecome  down 
here  to  learn  the  business  and  grow  up 
with  the  country.  Hello,"  he  exclaimed, 
as  the  lantern  shone  on  the  face  of  the 
superintendent.  "You  are  Mr.  Blount, 
aint  you  ?  My  father  told  me  about  you. 
You  are  an  Oxford  man.  Come  on  board. 
I  'm  in  disgrace,  you  know.  Sent  down 
here  on  account  of  a  little  trouble  I  had  at 
Harvard.  The  dean  is  very  fussy.  I  've  got 
my  luggage,  my  man,  a  bike,  and  two  dogs 
aboard.  Shall  I  get  off,  or  spend  the  night 
in  the  car  ?  It  goes  back  in  the  morning." 

"  I  think,"  said  Blount,  as  he  seated 
himself  upon  the  piano-stool  in  the  parlor 

[  '87  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


of  the  car,  "that  you  will  be  more  com 
fortable  here,  perhaps.  I  have  had  a  bed 
put  up  for  you  in  a  room  over  the  office, 
and  Mrs.  Brice  will  see  that  you  get  some 
thing  to  eat.  She  keeps  the  boarding- 
house  for  the  head  men.  Let  me  suggest 
that  you  do  not  overlook  Mrs.  Brice. 
She  is  asocial  leader  here.  She  wears  shirt 
waists,  and  she  plays  the  melodeon  when 
a  preacher  comes  this  way." 

Tom  Watkins  laughed  and  then  he 
winked. 

"Thank  you  for  the  steer,"  he  said. 
"I  '11  attend  to  Mrs.  B.  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning.  I  '11  get  her  over  before  the 
car  leaves  and  have  her  play  the  piano. 
This  is  the  only  car  the  Pullmans  have 
with  a  piano.  It  was  fitted  up  for  travel 
ling  opera  troupes,  so  they  could  practise 
between  stands.  My  man  hits  the  box  in 
great  shape.  He  's  been  playing  and  sing 
ing  for  me  all  the  way  down  from  Co 
lumbus.  If  you  say  so,  I  '11  have  him  in. 
I  should  like  to  have  you  hear  him  sing, 
'I  want  but  little,  but  I  want  it  nice.' 

[  188  ] 


Some  Old  Families 


It 's  great.  He  can  do  all  the  music-hall 
stunts.  He  only  came  over  from  London 
last  spring.  I  got  him  settling  up  a  poker 
debt  with  Russ  Suffolk,  just  after  the  dean 
turned  me  down.  Russ  is  a  great  swell  in 
college.  His  people  threw  the  tea  over 
in  the  war  of  1812,  or  some  of  those 
scraps.  Russ  used  to  say  to  me,  'Tom,  if 
your  grandfather  had  made  the  money, 
instead  of  your  father,  you  would  n't  be 
impossible' ;  and  then  he  'd  borrow  a  hun 
dred  and  go  off  to  the  club.  When  the 
dean  turned  me  down,  Russ  came  in  to 
see  me.  'Old  man,'  he  said,  'I  owe  you 
four  hundred,  and  I  owe  my  man  the 
same.  He  's  an  invaluable  man.  He  val 
eted  Lord  Oldcastle  when  he  went  on  the 
special  mission  to  Berlin  about  that  ruby 
that  was  taken  off  the  Prince  at  the  mas 
querade  ;  and  he  was  in  the  bushes  when 
Captain  O'Kelly  fought  the  duel  with  the 
Grand  Duke  at  Boulogne,  and  he  helped 
carry  the  Duke  to  the  carriage  after  it 
was  over.  If  you  take  a  man  like  that  back 
to  Kalamazoo,  Tom,  you  '11  paralyze  the 

[  189  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


town.  Now,  I  '11  tell  you  what  we  '11  do. 
We  '11  have  just  one  poker  hand,  with  a 
draw.  If  you  win,  you  take  Dawson,  pay 
him  the  four  hundred  I  owe  him  and  can 
cel  my  debt  to  you.  If  you  lose,  you  take 
Dawson  and  I  continue  to  owe  you  each 
four  hundred.'  We  dealt  the  cards  and 
Russ  drew  three.  I  held  up  a  pair  and 
drew  three.  On  the  show-down  I  had  my 
pair  and  Russ  had  nothing. 

"'You  win,'  he  said,  'and  I'll  send 
Dawson  over.  Good-by,  old  man.' 

"When  he  had  gone,  I  looked  at  his 
discard.  He  had  thrown  away  three  jacks. 
Some  of  those  old  families  are  no  fools." 

Blount  looked  hard  at  his  companion 
and  then  said,  "  May  I  ask  your  age,  Mr. 
Watkins?" 

The  boy  started,  blushed  to  his  hair, 
and  then  sprang  up  and  began  to  pace  the 
floor. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Blount.  "I 
have  been  down  here  so  long  that  I  am 
off  in  my  manners." 

"  No,"  exclaimed  the  boy,  stopping  be- 


Some  Old  Families 


fore  the  man,  "  I  know  I  am  a  fool.  I 
know  I  have  no  chance  with  men  like 
you.  But  think  of  it.  I  never  knew  my 
mother,  and  my  father  got  his  start  filing 
saws  in  the  lumber  mills.  He  has  made 
money.  He  is  one  of  the  richest  men  in 
Michigan,  and  he  sent  me  to  college  to 
learn  to  be  a  gentleman,  and  what  did  he 
give  me  to  start  with  ?  A  check-book." 

Now  it  was  the  man  who  blushed. 

"Tom,"  he  said,  and  the  boy  flushed 
again,  but  this  time  it  was  with  pleasure, 
"  I  carried  to  Oxford  much  more  than 
you  took  to  Harvard,  and  I  brought  less 
away.  You  must  not  think  hard  of  your 
father.  It  is  better  to  begin  by  filing  saws 
and  end  a  man  of  power,  than  to  begin 
with  power  and  end  by  filing  saws." 

"  Father  told  me,"  said  the  boy,  "  that 
you  were  a  gentleman." 

The  Englishman  drew  himself  up  and 
bowed  stiffly. "  Approbation  from  Sir  Hu 
bert  Stanley — "  he  began,  then  he  laughed 
and  took  up  his  lantern.  "Good  night," 
he  said.  "  I  invite  myself  to  breakfast  with 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


you  in  the  morning."  He  turned  at  the 
end  of  the  car.  "  By  the  way,"  he  drawled, 
"  if  I  may  presume  so  far,  I  would  sug 
gest  that  you  let  Dawson  go  back  to  Kala- 
mazoo.  There  is  absolutely  no  society  for 
him  here.  He  would  be  desolated." 

When  his  guest  had  departed,  the  boy 
pressed  the  button  of  the  electric  bell. 

Dawson  came  in  from  the  end  of  the  car. 

"Dawson,"  said  the  boy,  "did  you  see 
my  friend  Mr.  Blount?" 

Dawson  stood  irresolute. 

"Why  don't  you  answer?"  asked  the 
boy,  sharply. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  Dawson,  "but 
do  you  mean  the  gentleman  that  just  went 
out,  sir?" 

Something  in  Dawson's  voice  caused 
the  boy  to  look  up. 

"What  are  you  fidgeting  about?"  he 
asked.  "Do  you  know  him?" 

"The  gentleman  that  just  went  out, 
sir,"  said  Dawson,  slowly,  "is  the  Hono 
rable  Gerald  Fitzallen,  the  youngest  son 
of  the  Earl  of  Oldcastle.  I  packed  his 


Some  Old  Families 


boxes,  sir,  when  they  sent  him  down  from 
Christchurch.  It  broke  his  lordship's 
heart,  sir." 

"  Dawson,"  said  the  boy,  after  a  pause, 
"you  may  go  back  in  the  car  to-morrow, 
and  don't  let  Mr.  Blount  see  you  before 
you  go.  It  might  be  uncomfortable  for 
him.  Call  me  at  eight,  and  tell  the  cook 
to  have  breakfast  on  the  table  at  half-past. 
That 's  all." 

"  I  quite  understand,  sir,"  said  Dawson. 
"Good  night,  sir." 

The  next  morning  Blount  and  the  boy 
had  their  breakfast  in  the  car,  and  when 
they  had  finished,  Mrs.  Brice  came  over 
from  the  boarding-house  to  try  the  piano. 
She  wore  her  very  best  shirt-waist  and 
was,  perhaps,  overdressed.  She  began, 
timidly,  with  her  show  piece,  and  did 
not  make  an  entire  success  of  it,  but  the 
boy  helped  her. 

"Mrs.  Brice,"  he  cried,  clapping  his 
hands,  "you  played  that  way  up  in  G, 
but  it  is  too  classical  for  me.  Give  us 
something  simple." 

[   193   ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


And  Mrs.  Brice,  reassured,  let  her  fin 
gers  wander  among  the  keys,  and  out  there 
came  wonderful  melodies,  filled  with  sad 
minors  and  strange  conceits,  the  songs 
that  her  mammy  had  sung  to  her  long 
"before  the  war."  When  she  had  played 
for  some  time,  she  began  to  sing.  All 
her  embarrassment  had  left  her.  Her  rich 
voice  filled  the  narrow  car  and  floated 
through  the  open  windows  across  the 
river,  where  the  hands  in  the  lumber 
yards  stopped  their  work  to  listen. 

When  the  song  ceased,  Blount  was 
staring  hard  at  the  ceiling,  and  there  were 
tears  in  the  boy's  eyes. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  "  I  never  heard 
anything  like  that  before." 

"It  has  done  me  good,"  said  Mrs. 
Brice,  "to  get  away  from  my  oven  and 
my  wash-tubs  for  a  little  while,  and  now 
I  must  get  back  to  them." 

When  she  had  gone,  Blount  and  the 
boy  went  over  to  the  office,  where  they 
found  a  crowd  of  head  men  waiting  to 
be  presented  to  the  son  of  the  president. 

[   194  ] 


Some  Old  Families 


The  boy  was  somewhat  awed  by  the 
thought  that  all  these  men  were  working 
for  his  father,  and  that  some  day  they 
would  be  working  for  him. 

"What  are  those  rifles  for?"  he  asked, 
pointing  to  a  rack  against  the  wall. 

Blount  laughed.  "  Have  you  never 
heard  of  the  Hatfields  and  the  McCoys? " 
he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  boy,  "they  are  the 
families  that  have  the  feud  and  are  always 
killing  each  other,  aren't  they?" 

"Yes,"  said  Blount,  "and  we  have 
thirty  of  them  out  in  the  yards  piling 
lumber.  When  we  opened  the  mill  they 
used  to  carry  their  Winchesters  all  day 
and  work  with  one  hand.  We  paid  them 
for  half  a  day's  work.  Last  month  I  made 
a  rule  that  no  man  should  carry  a  gun  into 
the  yards,  and  they  had  a  caucus  and 
agreed.  They  come  here  in  the  morn 
ing,  leave  their  Winchesters,  get  checks 
for  them,  and  reclaim  them  at  the  end 
of  the  day.  We  pay  them  full  wages 
now." 

[  195  ] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"This  place  is  quite  different  from 
Cambridge,  is  n't  it? "  said  the  boy.  "  And 
even  from  Kalamazoo,"  he  added. 

"Yes,"  said  Blount,  "it  is  older.  The 
men  who  live  in  these  mountains  are 
nearly  the  best  bred  men  in  the  States. 
I  am  speaking  as  an  Englishman  now, 
and  I  mean  that  they  are  the  descendants 
of  younger  sons  who  were  driven  out  of 
Old  Virginia.  Their  ancestors  came  here 
for  cause,  and  they  have  bred  true.  They 
have  handed  down  lawlessness  and  pride 
of  birth." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  boy,  "that 
Kalamazoo  is  the  place  for  me.  I  ran  up 
against  pride  of  birth  at  Cambridge,  and 
now  I  run  up  against  it  in  Catamount.  I 
thought  I  should  be  'good  people'  here." 

"The  place  for  you,"  said  Blount,  "is 
New  York.  Several  old  families  have 
started  there  since  I  have  been  in  the 
States." 

The  door  opened  and  a  man  came  into 
the  office.  He  was  tall,  but  his  shoulders 
dragged.  His  hair  was  long,  unkempt, 

[  196] 


Some  Old  Families 


and  the  color  of  flax.  His  beard  was  thin, 
and  from  the  corners  of  his  mouth  two 
black  lines  ran  part  way  down  it.  His  eyes 
were  china-blue  and  watery.  He  was 
dressed  in  butternut  homespun.  On  his 
feet  were  a  pair  of  low  shoes,  broken,  and 
red  with  dried  mud.  He  wore  no  stock 
ings,  and  he  carried  a  Winchester  in  the 
hollow  of  his  left  arm. 

Blount  rose  and  pushed  out  a  chair. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Dinwiddie,"  he  said,  "how 
are  you  ?  This  is  Mr.  Watkins,  from 
Michigan,  the  son  of  our  president." 

Mr.  Dinwiddie  slowly  seated  himself 
and  planted  the  stock  of  his  Winchester 
between  his  feet. 

"Beg  pardon,"  said  Blount,  pointing 
to  the  rifle,  "but  you  know  the  rule  of 
the  office." 

Dinwiddie  slowly  raised  his  weapon, 
threw  open  the  breech,  and  held  it  up  to 
show  that  it  was  empty.  Then  he  handed 
it  to  Blount,  who  turned  to  the  boy  and 
showed  him  three  notches  cut  in  the  grip 
of  the  stock. 

[    197  1 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"Those  stand  for  the  men  he  has 
killed,"  he  whispered.  "He's  not  much 
of  a  murderer.  One  of  those  in  the  rack 
has  twenty-two  notches.  It  belongs  to  Cy 
Hatfield.  He  holds  the  record.  He  has 
been  tried  for  murder  thirteen  times,  and 
the  jury  has  always  disagreed.  He  is  out 
on  bail  now." 

Blount  handed  the  rifle  back  to  its 
owner. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Dinwiddie,"  he  said. 
"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ? " 

"  I  come  in  this  mornin',"  said  the  man 
with  three  notches  on  his  rifle,  "to  git 
a  clothes-line.  I  toted  in  some  corn, 
and  they  weighed  it  to  the  store,  and 
it  come  to  thirty-two  cents,  and  the 
clothes-line  is  thirty-six.  What  be  I 
goin'  to  do  ? " 

"  I  shall  esteem  it  a  favor,"  said  Blount, 
"if  you  will  permit  me  to  arrange  it  for 
you  ; "  and  he  went  out  and  returned  with 
the  line. 

"  Is  that  a  swell  ? "  asked  the  boy,  when 
Dinwiddie  had  departed. 

[  -98  ] 


Some  Old  Families 


"  If  descent  makes  one,"  replied  Blount, 
"he  is.  If  ascent  makes  one,  he  is  not. 
Take  your  choice." 

They  crossed  the  bridge  to  the  great 
saw-mill.  The  boy  stood  entranced.  For 
an  hour  he  watched  the  dripping  logs 
come  slowly  in  the  door,  riding  on  an 
endless  chain.  He  saw  them  seized  with 
canthooks  and  rolled  upon  the  carriage. 
He  saw  the  "nigger-head"  dart  up 
through  the  floor,  dash  its  sharp  beak  into 
the  log,  and  fling  it  into  position.  He  saw 
the  head  sawyer  hold  up  his  fingers  to 
designate  to  the  riders  the  thickness  of 
the  cut.  He  saw  them  set  their  gauge  and 
their  clamps.  He  saw  the  log  borne  down 
onto  the  great  whirring,  flashing  band- 
saw  which  sliced  it  as  if  it  were  cheese. 
He  heard  the  rush  of  the  returning  car 
riage.  He  saw  the  white  boards  carried 
away  in  the  distance,  to  be  measured, 
sorted,  piled  on  the  trucks,  and  shot  onto 
the  long  scaffolding  which  zigzagged  up 
the  valley  for  half  a  mile.  They  went  to 
the  dry-kilns,  where  great  piles  of  lumber 

[   '99  ] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


lay  seasoning.  They  went  to  the  huge 
stack,  where  the  sawdust,  that  would 
otherwise  swamp  the  mill,  was  burning 
with  a  roar  like  Niagara.  They  went  to 
the  planing-mill,  where  small  machines 
cut  up  and  smoothed  strips  of  oak  for  par- 
quette  flooring.  So  deft,  ingenious,  and 
perfect  was  the  work  that  the  boy  laughed 
aloud  as  he  watched. 

"  Thunder  !  "  he  said, "  those  machines 
are  alive.  I  feel  like  asking  them  ques 
tions." 

"There  is  only  one  thing  they  cannot 
do,"  said  Blount,  "they  cannot  sort  the 
strips  according  to  color.  That  must  be 
done  by  the  human  eye  and  hand." 

They  crossed  the  bridge  again,  and  at 
the  repair  shop  Blount  spoke  to  a  man  in 
blue  overalls  who  was  wiping  his  black 
ened  hands  on  a  bunch  of  waste. 

"  Is  steam  on  No.  3  ? " 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  man. 

"Run   her   out,"   said   Blount,   "and 
couple  on  a  flat.  Put  some  soap  boxes  on 
for  seats,  and  run  us  up  to  the  camps." 
[  200  ] 


Some  Old  Families 


"It  is  rather  nice,"  said  the  boy,  "to 
order  out  a  special  train  like  that." 

They  reached  the  camp  at  the  noon 
hour,  and  they  dined  in  the  boarding- 
house,  Blount  at  the  head  of  the  table  and 
the  camp  boss  and  the  boy  at  his  either 
hand.  The  latter  wondered  at  the  amount 
of  pie  consumed,  and  spoke  of  it. 

"  Ah,"  said  Blount, "  the  more  one  lives 
out  of  doors  the  more  he  craves  sweets. 
If  a  man  in  the  camp  here  steals  anything 
it  is  sure  to  be  sugar.  A  pate  de  foie  gras 
would  be  perfectly  safe." 

After  dinner  they  went  out  with  the 
cutters  and  watched  the  great  trees  trem 
ble,  rock,  and  then,  with  a  mighty  rush 
of  wind,  come  sweeping  to  the  earth. 
Sometimes,  as  the  last  ligaments  parted, 
the  dying  giants  shrieked  as  they  fell. 

"I  don't  like  this,"  said  the  boy.  "It 
is  too  much  like  homicide." 

"  I  have  never  grown  quite  used  to  it," 
said  Blount.  "  Suppose  we  go  back." 

"Is  this  the  end  of  the  road?"  asked 
the  boy. 

201 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"Yes,"  replied  his  companion,  "we 
extend  it  as  we  cut." 

"  I  believe  I  will  walk  on  a  bit,"  said 
the  boy. 

"Very  good,"  said  Blount.  "Follow 
the  valley,  and  you  will  come  to  a  trail 
on  the  left.  It  goes  on  forever.  When  you 
have  had  enough,  come  back  here  and 
take  any  train.  I  must  go  to  the  office." 

When  the  boy  had  gone  up  the  bank 
of  the  stream  for  a  half-mile,  he  found 
the  trail  and  turned  into  it.  It  was  two 
feet  wide  and  twisted  through  the  forest, 
a  faint  line  on  the  dark  carpet  of  fallen 
leaves.  The  sunlight  was  shaded  by  the 
tree-tops,  and  the  great  trunks  marked  out 
the  aisles  and  transepts  of  the  first  temple. 
There  was  no  sound.  The  small,  brown 
birds  that  flitted  about  the  path  were 
mute.  The  silence  awed  the  boy,  and  he 
went  on  slowly.  Suddenly  he  stopped.  At 
his  feet,  lying  across  the  path,  was  a  green 
branch,  freshly  broken. 

"How  did  that  come  here?"  he  asked 
himself.  He  picked  it  up.  It  was  laurel, 
[  202  ] 


Some  Old  Families 


and  there  was  none  growing  in  sight.  He 
went  on  a  little  further,  and  there  was  an 
other  branch  across  the  trail.  He  looked 
about,  and  far  ahead  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  bright  color  that  instantly  disappeared. 
He  went  on  faster,  passing  branch  after 
branch.  Finally  he  stopped  and  picked 
up  another,  that  lay  at  the  foot  of  a  gi 
gantic  poplar,  fifteen  feet  in  girth.  As  he 
stood,  perplexed,  he  heard  a  low  but 
merry  laugh.  He  stepped  around  the 
tree-trunk  and  came  upon  a  girl  who 
wore  a  pink  cotton  dress,  and  who  held 
in  her  arms  a  bunch  of  laurel  twigs. 

The  boy,  being  a  boy,  blushed,  and 
took  off  his  cap;  and  the  girl,  being  a 
girl,  laughed.  Then  the  boy  laughed  too. 
The  sombre  forest  suddenly  became  a 
very  pleasant  place.  When  it  seemed  silly 
to  laugh  any  longer,  the  boy  began  to  cast 
about  for  something  to  say.  He  was  so 
long  about  it  that  the  girl  spoke  first. 

"Where  is  your  bottle?"  she  asked. 

"  My  bottle? "  said  the  boy.  "  I  haven't 
any." 

[  2°3  1 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


The  girl  laughed  again.  She  did  not 
giggle,  nor  guffaw.  She  laughed  with 
the  silvery  gurgle  of  a  brook  running 
over  pebbles,  and  when  she  laughed  the 
boy  saw  that  there  were  dimples  in  her 
glowing  cheeks,  her  dainty  chin,  and  at 
the  corners  of  her  red  lips. 

"  If  you  have  n't  got  a  bottle,"  she 
said,  "why  did  you  take  up  the  twig?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  boy.  "  I 
saw  it  in  the  path  and  wondered  how  it 
got  there.  What  does  it  mean?  Why  did 
you  put  it  there?" 

"You  don't  know  much,  do  you?" 
asked  the  girl. 

"  No,"  said  the  boy,  "  I  Ve  never  had 
a  chance." 

"Well,"  resumed  the  girl,  "father  ran 
his  still  last  night  and  made  between  four 
and  five  gallons.  The  twigs  mean  that  if 
you  leave  your  bottle  and  your  money 
opposite  one  of  them,  you  will  find  your 
bottle  full  in  the  morning." 

"Ah,"  said  the  boy,  "I  understand — 
moonshine?  " 

[  2°4  ] 


Some  Old  Families 


"  Yes,"  said  the  girl.  "  We  have  to  live. 
Good-by." 

"Where  are  you  going? "  asked  the  boy. 

"  Home,"  replied  the  girl,  pointing  up 
the  trail. 

"May  I  go  with  you?"  he  asked. 

"  Sure,"  she  answered,  "  the  road  is 
free." 

They  walked  on,  saying  little ;  and  soon 
they  came  to  the  creek,  clear  and  ankle 
deep  at  the  edge,  but  dark  and  strewn 
with  bowlders  in  the  channel. 

"You'd  better  take  off  your  shoes  and 
stockings,"  said  the  girl. 

The  boy  looked  down  at  his  compan 
ion's  feet.  They  were  bare,  but  she  was 
not  ashamed.  She  led  the  way,  leaping 
from  stone  to  stone  with  her  bare  feet, 
and  the  bov  followed  as  best  he  could  in 

J 

his  Thomas  golf  shoes. 

Watching  the  girl,  he  made  a  miss  of 
the  centre  stone,  and  laughing,  he  slipped 
into  the  waist-deep  water.  She  heard  the 
splash,  and  leaping  back,  gave  him  her 
hand.  He  grasped  it,  and  it  was  so  strong 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


but  yet  so  soft,  so  warm,  so  vital,  that  he 
could  not  bear  to  let  it  go;  so  he  held  it 
until  they  reached  the  other  side,  and 
even  then,  he  kept  it  and  stood  looking 
into  her  face.  As  he  gazed  at  her  he  saw 
her  eyes  grow  soft  and  then  droop.  He 
saw  the  rich  blood  come  rushing  into  her 
cheeks,  and  then,  being  a  boy,  and  she  be 
ing  a  girl,  he  felt  his  heart  stop  beating, 
and  bending  down,  he  kissed  her. 

When  they  came  back  to  earth  and 
felt  the  sunshine  and  heard  the  whisper 
ing  of  the  leaves  and  the  singing  of  the 
stream,  the  girl  exercised  the  prerogative 
of  her  sex,  and  again  spoke  first. 

"Are  you  my  lover?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  boy,  "I  am  your 
lover." 

"Do  you  mean  true?"  she  said,  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders,  her  eyes  search 
ing  his. 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  "I  mean  true;" 
and  they  went  on  up  the  trail,  hand  in 
hand. 

[  206  ] 


Some  Old  Families 


They  walked  slowly,  and  being  a  boy 
and  a  girl,  they  stopped  often,  so  that  it 
was  some  time  before  they  came  to  a  little 
clearing,  unfenced  and  dotted  with  tree- 
stumps,  about  which  grew  goldenrod 
and  wild  asters.  In  the  centre  stood  a  cabin 
built  of  hewn  logs,  their  joints  plastered 
with  clay. 

"  There,"  said  the  girl,  pointing  toward 
the  cabin,  "that's  my  home." 

The  boy  felt  a  bit  queer,  just  then.  He 
thought  of  his  father's  house  in  Kalama- 
zoo,  with  its  wooden  towers  and  mina 
rets,  its  porte-cochere,  its  great  bare  lawn 
with  the  tulip  bed  and  the  two  green  cast- 
iron  settees  in  the  centre,  and  for  a  brief 
moment  he  speculated  as  to  how  the  presi 
dent  would  regard  this  first  afternoon 
spent  in  Catamount. 

Soon,  however,  he  was  thinking  of 
other  things,  for  as  they  approached  the 
cabin,  a  man  came  out  and  stood  before 
the  door.  He  was  tall,  but  bent ;  his  hair 
was  flaxen  and  touched  his  shoulders,  and 
from  the  corners  of  his  mouth  two  black 

[  2°7  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


stains  ran  down  his  beard.  He  was  dressed 
in  butternut,  and  he  carried  a  Winches 
ter  in  the  hollow  of  his  left  arm.  His  eyes 
were  china-blue. 

"Dinwiddie?"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl;  and  then  as  they 
came  up  to  the  door  she  said,  "  Father, 
this  is  my  lover." 

There  followed  a  silence  that  the  boy 
thought  would  never  end.  It  ended  with 
a  click.  Dinwiddie  had  cocked  his  rifle. 
The  boy  began  to  think  again  of  his  fa 
ther  and  of  Kalamazoo.  He  did  not  look 
at  the  girl;  he  kept  his  eyes  on  the  gun, 
or  perhaps  on  the  man  behind  the  gun. 

"Rosie,"  said  the  man  with  the  china- 
blue  eyes,  —  and  his  voice  was  low  and 
sweet,  like  the  girl's,  —  "they  ain't  none 
better  born  nor  you  in  all  the  mountings. 
You  're  Dinwiddie  on  yer  pa's  side,  and 
yer  ma  had  Pocahonty  blood.  Bein'  bred 
like  that,  it  would  n't  be  right  fer  you  to 
cross  with  no  galoot  from  Michigan.  No, 
no,  Rosie ;  you  kin  do  a  heap  better.  Cy 
Hatfield  is  bailed  out,  I  seen  him  at  the 

[  208  ] 


Some  Old  Families 


mill.  He  's  comin'  up  to-night  and  he  's 
goin'  to  marry  you  to-morrer." 

With  a  cry  like  a  wild  beast's,  the  girl 
sprang  at  her  father  and  struck  him  in 
the  face. 

"  Good,"  said  Dinwiddie,  calmly,  as  he 
drew  his  sleeve  across  his  cheek.  "That 
Pocahonty  blood  is  game.  Yer  ma  had  it." 

Then  he  straightened  himself,  and  his 
china-blue  eyes  grew  hard  and  evil. 

"Go,"  he  said  to  the  boy,  and  he 
pointed  toward  the  trail. 

The  boy  hesitated. 

"Shall  I  go,  Rosie?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  sobbed  the  girl.  "He'll  kill 
you  if  you  don't." 

"  Go,"  repeated  Dinwiddie,  in  a  voice 
no  longer  low  and  sweet.  "  And  don't  yer 
come  back  again.  If  yer  do,  by  God, 
there  '11  be  four  nicks  on  my  gun  'stead 
of  three." 

II 

JL  HE  next  morning  the  boy  came  very 

late  to  his  breakfast.  Mrs.  Brice  waited 

[   209  ] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


for  him  and  was  embarrassed  and  dis 
tressed  by  his  want  of  appetite.  She  even 
suggested  some  dried-apple  pie.  When  a 
man  in  Catamount  starts  in  to  drink,  be 
cause  he  is  paid  off,  or  has  had  a  baby 
born,  or  a  funeral  in  his  family,  he  is  apt 
to  have  pie  for  breakfast.  Just  so  the  man 
who  has  been  fortunate  in  "the  Street" 
eats  melons  at  the  Waldorf  in  February. 
The  boy  declined  the  pie,  drank  a  little 
tea,  nibbled  a  slice  of  toast,  and  pushed 
back  his  chair. 

Outside  the  sun  was  shining  as  usual; 
the  sluggish  river  eddied  by  the  booms, 
the  air  was  filled  with  the  hum  of  the 
band-saws,  the  clack  of  the  planers,  the 
puffing  of  the  logging  locomotives,  the 
roar  of  the  sawdust-burner. 

The  boy  went  slowly  down  the  road, 
crossed  the  railway,  and  passed  on  to  the 
store.  He  did  not  enter,  but  stood  upon 
the  steps,  his  hands  in  his  coat  pockets, 
his  thoughts  far  up  the  trail. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  clatter  on  the 
bridge.  He  looked  and  saw  a  gray  mule 
[  210  ] 


Some  Old  Families 


shacking  down  the  road.  On  her  back  was 
a  slouching  rider  clad  in  butternut.  The 
sun  glistened  on  the  barrel  of  a  rifle. 

"  Dinwiddie ! "  gasped  the  boy.  And 
then  he  set  his  teeth  and  stood  his  ground. 

The  gray  mule  came  on  and  finally 
stopped  before  the  store.  The  rider  swung 
his  right  leg  and  dismounted  slowly.  He 
threw  his  reins  over  the  mule's  head  upon 
the  ground.  Then  he  came  up  the  steps. 

"MorninV  he  said.  "How  be  ye?" 

The  boy  stood  silent. 

"They  's  goin'  to  be  a  weddin'  at  our 
house  to-night,"  said  the  man  with  the 
china-blue  eyes,  "  and  I  come  in  to  git  a 
few  fixin's.  I  haint  got  no  ready  money, 
and  what  be  I  goin'  to  do  ? " 

The  boy  led  the  way  into  the  store. 

"Mr.  Barton,"  he  said  to  the  clerk, 
"let  Mr.  Dinwiddie  have  what  he  wants 
and  charge  it  to  me." 

With  the  bazaars  of  the  world  before 
him,  Mr.  Dinwiddie  chose  two  pairs  of 
ladies'  white  cotton  hose,  one  pair  of  gents' 
ditto ;  one  pair  of  ladies'  shoes,  No.  3, 

[    2"    ] 


T'he  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


one  pair  of  gents'  ditto,  No.  10  ;  six  cot 
ton  pocket-handkerchiefs,  one  celluloid 
comb,  a  pound  of  cheese,  and  twenty-five 
Winchester  cartridges. 

"There,"  he  said,  when  he  had  com 
pleted  his  purchases,  and  was  about  to  re 
mount  his  mule, "  fer  clost  on  to  two  hun 
dred  year  my  fambly  has  been  married  in 
shoes  and  stockin's.  I  must  be  goin'.  Cy 
and  Rosie  is  down  the  trail,  rillin'  the 
bottles  and  takin'  up  the  money."  He 
kicked  his  mule  and  started,  only  to  wheel 
about  and  return. 

"Mr.  Watkins,"  he  said,  "no  hard 
feelin's  'twixt  us,  be  they  ?  We  could  n't 
quite  'low  you  to  marry  inter  the  fambly, 
but  we  '11  keep  on  tradin'  to  your  store 
jist  the  same." 

He  started  again  and  wheeled  again. 

"Mr.  Watkins,"  he  said,  restraining 
his  restive  mule,  "  Rosie  says,  'Tell  Tom, 
if  you  sees  him,  to  come  up  the  trail  some 
time  when  Cy 's  in  jail." 


[  2I2  ] 


THE    EYE 
OF    THE    HAREM 


THE    EYE 

OF    THE    HAREM 


W  HEN  the  Bishop  had  passed  the  cus 
toms  —  a  High  Church  inspector  letting 
certain  embroidered  vestments  through 
as  "tools  to  be  used  in  a  trade,"  under 
Schedule  Z  —  he  took  a  cab  and  had  his 
wife  and  himself  driven  to  the  Albemarle. 
His  rooms  were  ready  for  him,  and  his 
letters  were  on  a  table  in  the  sitting-room. 
His  wife,  a  small,  thin  woman  with  gray 
hair  drawn  over  her  ears,  examined  the 
letters  and  selected  her  own.  Then  she 
permitted  the  Bishop  to  have  his.  He 
went  into  his  chamber,  and  soon  came  to 
the  door  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

"Maria,"  he  called,  "here  is  a  note 
from  Tewksbury.  An  engagement  pre 
vented  his  meeting  us  at  the  wharf,  but 
he  puts  his  carriage  at  our  disposal  while 
we  are  here,  sends  his  kindest  remem 
brances  to  you  and  incloses  —  " 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  What  ? "  asked  his  wife,  with  a  hair 
pin  in  her  mouth. 

"Nothing,''  replied  the  Bishop,  "that 
is,"  he  added,  "only  a  card;"  and  having 
been  so  near  to  an  untruth,  he  thought 
of  Saint  Peter  and  half  listened  for  the 
cock's  crow. 

"  Well,"  said  his  wife,  after  a  short  in 
terval,  her  mouth  still  occupied  by  the 
necessaries  of  her  toilet,  "  if  I  felt  equal 
to  it  I  should  go  around  to  Trinity  Chapel 
and  give  thanks  for  a  safe  voyage,  but 
my  head  is  very  bad  and  I  shall  try  to 
sleep.  Of  course  you  will  go." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  The 
Bishop  went  to  it  hurriedly. 

"Please,  sir,"  said  the  buttons,  "Mr. 
Tewksbury's  carriage  is  below,  and  the 
groom  says  he  is  to  take  your  orders." 

The  Bishop  went  to  the  door  of  his 
wife's  room. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "I  wish  I  could 
do  something  for  you.  I  don't  like  to  leave 
you  alone." 

"Nonsense,"    rejoined    his   wife,   "it 


T'he  Eye  of  the  Harem 


won't  be  the  first  time.  There  is  a  little 
foreign  money  in  my  purse.  Put  it  in  the 
offertory,  I  dare  say  they  can  use  it,  and 
get  me  some  fruit  while  you  are  out  — 
that  nasty  steamer  food  !  lobsters  on  the 
menu  six  days  out!  —  get  me  some  necla- 
rines,  such  as  we  had  at  Lambeth  Palace  ; 
there  is  a  fruit-shop  just  up  the  street ; 
and  don't  wake  me  up  to  show  them  to 
me.  Wait  till  I  call  you." 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  said  the  Bishop,  and 
he  went  down-stairs  and  entered  the  neat 
brougham  which  stood  before  the  door. 

"  Where,  my  lord  ? "  asked  the  foot 
man. 

"  Anywhere,"  sighed  the  Bishop  as  he 
sank  back  against  the  cushions. 

They  drove  through  the  park,  and  the 
sweetness  of  the  landscape  brought  peace 
to  the  Bishop's  heart. 

"  After  all,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  a  celi 
bate  clergy  has  its  limitations.  See  those 
baby-carriages  and  white-capped  nurses 
on  the  lawn.  None  of  them,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  belongs  to  the  Pope,  and  any  one 

[  2I7  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


of  them  —  infant,  all  of  them  —  might  be 
long  to  my  humblest  curate.  Then,  there 
is  the  question  of  stockings.  Maria  keeps 
mine  darned.  Friars  are  barefooted,  doubt 
less  because  they  have  no  one  to  darn  for 
them.  By  the  way,  what  was  it  Maria  told 
me  to  fetch  her  ?  Oh,  nectarines,  that 's 
it.  I  Ve  plenty  of  time  and  will  get  them 
after  I  have  let  the  carriage  go,"  and  just 
then  they  quitted  the  macadam  of  the 
park  for  the  asphalt  of  the  avenue. 

In  a  few  moments  the  Bishop,  who  had 
been  watching  the  street-lamps,  squeezed 
the  rubber  bulb  which  hung  in  front  of 
the  brougham  door,  and  the  coachman 
drew  up  to  the  left-hand  curb. 

The  Bishop  backed  slowly  out,  one  foot 
on  the  step  and  the  other  feeling  for  the 
sidewalk. 

"James,"  he  said,  when  he  had  found 
his  legs  —  and  very  good  legs  they  were 
in  their  gaiters  —  "James,  that  is  all." 

"Thank  you,  my  lord,"  said  James, 
raising  his  forefinger  to  his  hat-brim. 

"And,  James,"  added  the  Bishop,  "if 

[  2-8  ] 


The  Eye  of  the  Harem 


any  one  should  ask  where  you  left  me, 
you  may  say  at  the  corner  of  Thirty- 
eighth  Street.  This  is  the  corner  of  Thirty- 
eighth  Street,  is  it  not  ? " 

"  Quite  so,  my  lord,"  replied  James. 

"  I  have  enjoyed  my  drive  very  much," 
said  the  Bishop.  "  Share  this  with  the 
coachman,"  and  he  slipped  his  wife's 
foreign  money,  wrapped  in  a  bill,  into 
James's  hand. 

The  Bishop  stood  a  moment,  as  if  un 
decided  where  to  go,  then  he  walked 
briskly  down  the  avenue.  As  he  went 
along  men  and  women  turned  to  look  at 
him,  the  men  a  little  slyly,  the  women 
with  frank  admiration.  Miss  Dottie  St. 
Claire,  who  was  driving  home  from  re 
hearsal,  put  her  blond  head  out  of  the 
hansom  and  gazed  after  him. 

"  Are  n't  he  a  love  ? "  she  said  to  the 
young  man  by  her  side.  "He  makes  me 
think  of  'ome." 

And  the  Bishop  was  well  worth  look 
ing  at.  Six  feet  tall,  with  a  smooth,  ruddy 
face,  kind  blue  eyes,  crisp  gray  hair  un- 

[  219  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


der  a  shovel  hat,  neat  gaiters,  well-black 
ened  boots,  andjust  enough  waist  to  show 
off  his  apron,  he  was  a  pleasing  object, — 
so  pleasing,  indeed,  that  it  was  difficult 
for  certain  lewd  men  who  passed  him  to 
conceive  that  he  was  the  direct  descend 
ant  of  the  apostles,  who,  they  whispered 
one  to  another,  were  simple  folk,  with 
only  one  coat,  one  pair  of  shoes,  and  no 
stockings,  no  gaiters,  no  amethyst  episco 
pal  rings,  no  broughams,  and  no  incomes. 

But  the  good  Bishop,  as  he  walked 
down  the  avenue,  was  not  troubled  by 
these  aspersions  of  his  legitimacy.  His 
thoughts  were  evidently  fixed  on  pleas- 
anter  things  than  the  bar  sinister  with 
which  envy  sought  to  daub  his  sacerdotal 
escutcheon. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  to  himself,  "if 
this  is  the  place?"  and  he  stopped  and 
looked  up  at  a  corner  house. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  consulting  a  card  which 
he  held  in  his  hand  ;  "this  is  the  num 
ber,  but  it  might  be  a  private  house  for 
all  that  appears.  I  had  supposed  — "  and 
[  220  ] 


'The  Eye  of  the  Harem 


then  he  went  up  the  steps  which  were  on 
the  side  street  and  touched  the  bell.  The 
door  opened  instantly. 

"Is  this  the  Saunterers'  Club?"  he 
asked  of  the  servant  who  stood  on  the 
threshold. 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  replied  the  hallman. 

The  Bishop  blushed,  first  with  pleas 
ure,  and  again  because  his  conscience 
pricked  him. 

"  I  am  Bishop  Williamson,  of  Porto 
Rico,"  he  said,  "and  I  received  notice 
to-day  that  my  old  friend,  Mr.  Robert 
Tewksbury,  has  obtained  the  privileges 
of  this  club  for  me  for  two  weeks.  Is  Mr. 
Tewksbury  in?"  and  he  held  out  the 
card. 

"No,  my  lord,"  replied  the  doorman, 
"  but  he  will  be,  later.  He  telephoned  for 
dinner  only  a  few  moments  ago." 

The  Bishop  went  in  and  a  servant  took 
his  hat. 

"  I  will  show  you  about  the  'ouse,  my 
lord,"  he  said. 

The  Bishop  blushed  again.  He  found 

221 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


it  pleasant  to  be  addressed  by  English  ser 
vants. 

They  entered  the  library. 

"  Ah  ! "  exclaimed  the  Bishop,  "  this  is 
delightful.  Such  quiet,  such  repose,  such 
a  refuge  from  the  hurly-burly  of  the 
street !  I  think  I  will  try  one  of  these  hos 
pitable  chairs." 

"  Shall  I  bring  you  a  paper,  my  lord  ? " 
asked  the  servant. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Bishop.  "I  should 
like  to  see  the  last  copy  of  the  Church 
man" 

"Very  sorry,  my  lord,  but  we  don't 
take  in  the  Churchman"  said  William. 
"  Will  you  try  the  'Evening  Post,  my  lord? 
The  Post  is  a  very  serious  paper." 

"No,"  replied  the  Bishop.  "I  think  I 
will  take  a  little  rest.  I  have  had  a  busy 
day.  And,  by  the  way,"  he  added,  his 
conscience  pricking  him  again, "  I  am  not 
'  my  lord.'  I  am  simply  Bishop  William 
son,  of  Porto  Rico." 

"Thank  you,  my  lord,"  said  William  ; 
and  then  he  went  away. 
[  222   ] 


'The  Eye  of  the  Harem 


Left  to  himself,  the  good  Bishop 
glanced  languidly  about  the  room, — its 
huge  chairs,  heavy  curtains,  sombre  color, 
and  subdued  lights,  so  inviting  to  repose. 
Then,  assured  that  he  was  alone,  he 
stretched  out  his  gaitered  legs,  crossed  his 
white  hands  over  his  apron,  dropped  his 
chin  upon  his  breast,  and  slept. 

He  had  scarcely  lost  himself  when  the 
clear  notes  of  a  coach-horn  filled  the  room. 
It  was  evidently  blown  at  the  club  door. 
The  Bishop  awakened  with  a  jerk,  and 
getting  on  his  feet,  walked  to  the  open 
window.  He  was  just  in  time  to  see  a 
black  drag,  picked  out  in  yellow,  draw 
up  to  the  curb.  While  it  was  still  in  mo 
tion  two  servants  ran  to  the  heads  of  the 
horses,  and  when  the  brake  was  set  a  tall 
man  in  a  drab  coat,  who  was  sitting  on 
the  box  seat,  threw  the  reins  onto  the 
wheelers'  backs  and  stood  up.  The  horses 
spread  their  legs  and  breathed  hard.  It 
was  evident  that  they  had  come  fast.  A 
crowd  gathered  instantly  from  the  place 
from  which  crowds  come,  and  men  with 

[  223   ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


bare  heads  ran  out  of  the  club  and  stood 
about  the  front  wheels. 

"Good  old  Tewksbury,"  cried  some 
one  from  the  club  steps. 

"  Good  old  Macaroni,"  cried  another. 

"Three  cheers  for  Spaghetti,"  yelled  a 
third,  and  they  were  given  with  a  will. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Tewksbury,  brac 
ing  himself  on  the  footboard,  "the  filly 
ran  true  to  breeding,  and  there  will  be 
cakes  and  ale  in  the  blue  dining-room 
at  eight  o'clock.  I  hope  you  all  landed 
well.  You  haven't  time  to  go  home  and 
dress.  Come  as  you  are.  All  you  need  is  a 
thirst." 

"Bless  me,"  said  the  Bishop,  to  him 
self,  "can  that  man  in  those  very  pro 
nounced  clothes  be  Robert  Tewksbury? 
When  I  last  saw  him,  at  the  General 
Convention"  —  and  then  the  door  flew 
open  and  Tewksbury  came  in. 

"David,  old  boy,  how  are  you?"  he 
cried. 

"  Bob,"  replied  the  Bishop,  "  I  am  very 
well." 

[224] 


The  Eye  of  the  Harem 


The  two  men  stood  gazing  and  smiling 
at  each  other. 

"You  old  sinner,"  said  Tewksbury, 
"how  your  togs  become  you  !" 

"  You  old  saint,"  said  the  Bishop, "  how 
funny  you  look  in  yours  ! "  and  then  they 
laughed  and  shook  hands  for  a  long 
time. 

"I  saw  your  arrival  in  the  Herald" 
said  Tewksbury,  "and  I  sent  my  coach 
man  round  to  you  with  the  carriage.  Did 
he  find  you?" 

"  Indeed  he  did,"  said  the  Bishop, "  and 
I  got  your  card  for  the  club,  and  came  to 
thank  you.  I  have  to  choose  my  time, 
for  we  are  very  busy,  and  Maria  is  a  lit 
tle  nervous." 

"How/j  Maria?"  asked  Tewksbury. 

"Just  as  ever,"  replied  the  Bishop,  "  as 
true  as  steel." 

"Humph,"  said  Tewksbury. 

The  Bishop  sighed. 

As  the  mention  of  his  wife  had  caused 
the  silence  which  ensued,  he  felt  bound 
to  break  it. 

[  225  ] 


T'he  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  What  have  you  been  doing  lately, 
Bob?"  he  asked. 

"Doing?"  exclaimed  Tewksbury, — 
"everything.  This  has  been  my  busy 
year.  I  went  to  Europe  last  October,  fell 
in  with  the  Turkish  ambassador  at  Lon 
don,  went  on  with  him  to  Constantinople, 
worked  out  a  loan  for  the  Sultan,  cleaned 
up  a  million,  came  home  last  week,  and 
to-day  I  won  the  'Far  and  Near'  with 
my  filly  Spaghetti,  by  Macaroni,  out  of 
Vermicelli." 

"  What  is  the  £  Far  and  Near '  ? "  asked 
the  Bishop. 

Tewksbury  looked  hard  at  his  friend. 

"Dave,"  he  said,  finally,  "you  always 
were  rather  downy  at  school.  You  used 
to  pretend  ignorance  of  lots  of  things 
with  which  you  had  at  least  a  bowing  ac 
quaintance.  This  supposed  ignorance  of 
yours  went  far  toward  making  you  a 
bishop." 

The  Bishop  smiled  a  sort  of  smile,  but 
he  asked  again,  "  What  is  the  '  Far  and 
Near'?" 

[  226  ] 


The  Eye  of  the  Harem 


"If  you're  honest  about  it,"  said 
Tewksbury,  "  it 's  a  horse-race,  and  I  won 
it  to-day,  along  with  forty  thousand  dol 
lars,  and  I  '11  build  you  a  chapel  in  Porto 
Rico  if  you'll  dine  with  me  to-night." 
He  was  evidently  somewhat  excited. 

The  Bishop  sat  silent  for  a  moment, 
and  then  he  uttered  the  single  word, 
"Maria?" 

"  Be  a  man,  Dave,"  said  Tewksbury. 

The  Bishop's  hands  clasped  the  arms 
of  his  chair,  and  the  charming  bow  of  his 
lips  became  a  straight  line. 

"Bob,"  he  said,  "I  will." 

"  Good,"  exclaimed  Tewksbury,  "  the 
chapel  is  yours." 

"  I  'm  afraid,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  that  I 
should  have  stayed  without  the  chapel. 
I  am  periodically  attacked  with  a  longing 
to  mingle  with  my  fellow-men.  Thus  far 
I  have  fought  against  it,  although  in  Lon 
don  I  fell,  and  went  to  Madame  Tussaud's. 
But  to-day  I  have  scarcely  struggled.  I 
started  out  this  afternoon  with  the  delib 
erate  intention  of  coming  here.  I  dis- 
[  227  ] 


'The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


missed  your  carriage  at  the  corner  of 
Thirty-eighth  Street,  and  told  James  to 
say  he  had  set  me  down  there.  I  thought 
it  would  not  look  well  if  I  drove  up  to 
the  door  of  a  club,  and  I  proposed  to  say 
nothing  about  it  to  Maria.  This  is  bad 
enough,  but  it  is  not  the  worst,  for,  Bob, 
I  actually  revel  in  the  deceit.  I  am  wildly 
happy  in  my  sin,  and  I  propose  to  quaff 
the  cup  of  pleasure  to  the  dregs;  but, 
Bob,"  he  added  earnestly,  "you  must  let 
me  know  when  it  is  ten  o'clock.  Till  then 
I  shall  be  a  man  among  men.  After  ten,  I 
shall  be  the  Bishop  of  Porto  Rico,  and 
shall  go  home  to  Maria.  I  know  what 
you  are  going  to  say.  You  are  about  to 
suggest  that  I  tell  Maria  that  I  stayed  out 
in  order  to  get  the  chapel.  There  are  two 
objections  to  that.  One  is  that  it  is  not 
true,  and  the  other  is  that  Maria  will 
know  that  it  is  not  true.  By  the  way,  I 
left  her  to  go  to  Trinity  Chapel,  and  then 
to  get  her  some  nectarines  at  Hick's. 
Don't  let  me  forget  them." 

"All  right,"  said  Tewksbury,  "you 
[  228  ] 


The  Eye  of  the  Harem 


have  plenty  of  time  to  run  over  to  the 
Albemarle  and  tell  her  you  are  going  to 
dine  with  me." 

"  By  no  means,"  exclaimed  the  Bishop. 
"I  shall  send  a  note.  I  am  not  Catiline. 
If  I  go,  I  shall  not  return." 

"All  right,"  laughed  Tewksbury .  "You 
know  best.  I  '11  just  run  upstairs  and  do  a 
tub.  I  sha'  n't  change  because  the  others 
have  n't  time.  By  the  way,  what  clothes 
do  you  wear  at  coronations  and  such  like  ? " 

The  Bishop  blushed  for  the  third  time. 

"When  I  dined  at  Lambeth  Palace," 
he  said,  "  I  wore  silk  stockings  and  silver 
buckles  on  my  pumps,  but  my  coat  was 
very  like  the  one  I  have  on,  except  that 
it  was  braided." 

"  You  '11  do  above  the  waist,  then,"  said 
Tewksbury,  "  and  your  legs  will  be  under 
the  table.  Come  along  if  you  want  to 
wash  your  hands." 

II 

A  SCORE  of  men  sat  about  the  long 

table  in  the  blue  room.  There  were  bank- 

[  229  ] 


T'he  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


ers,  railroad  presidents,  promoters,  cor 
poration  lawyers,  idlers;  all  were  million- 
naires  except  the  Bishop  and  a  little  man 
in  tweeds  who  sat  at  the  host's  left.  The 
little  man  was  presented  to  the  Bishop 
by  Tewksbury  as  his  trainer;  "and  what 
Jenkins  does  n't  know  about  horses,"  he 
added,  "you  can  put  in  tea." 

"How  very  interesting,"  rejoined  the 
Bishop.  "  I  should  enjoy  a  long  talk  with 
you,  Mr.  Jenkins,  about  that  noblest  of 
animals,  the  horse.  You  doubtless  recall 
the  matchless  description  of  him  in  the 
Book  of  Job." 

"  I  carnt  say  as  I  do,  my  lord,"  replied 
Mr.  Jenkins.  "  What  with  lookin'  after 
three  and  thirty  in  trainin',  keepin'  the 
stable  lads  sober,  warnin'  off  the  touts  and 
reporters,  seein'  after  the  weights  and  en 
tries,  nursin'  the  sick  ones,  patchin'  up 
the  cripples,  takin'  off  my  'at  to  the  jocks, 
as  you  has  to  do  now-a-days,  and  with 
oats  at  forty-eight  cents,  I  don't  have  the 
time  for  much  readin',  but  I  was  well  ac 
quainted  with  Job." 

[  23°  ] 


The  Eye  of  the  Harem 


"  What  ? "  exclaimed  the  Bishop. 

"  Of  course  you  understand,"  added 
Mr.  Jenkins,  "that  Job  wasn't  his  real 
name.  He  just  took  it  for  sportin'  pur 
poses,  and  he  used  to  sign  it  to  the  racin' 
articles  in  the  Spirit.  He  called  on  me 
once  at  the  stables,  a  proper  gentleman 
with  sandy  hair  and  a  blue  bird's-eye  tie 
—  did  n't  ask  for  no  tips — just  passed  the 
time  of  day — gave  me  a  cigar — had  the 
clothes  off  of  Macaroni  —  went  into  the 
'ouse  to  see  the  picture  of  the  old  'orse 
with  me  at  his  'ead  —  took  a  cup  of  tea 
with  the  missus — liked  to  killed  her  with 
one  of  his  stories  —  'ad  the  little  girl  onto 
his  lap,  and  went  away  as  pleasant  as  a 
May  mornin'.  I  '11  look  up  his  book  this 
winter  unless  we  take  the  string  South." 

"I  fear,"  said  the  Bishop,  "that  I  did 
not  make  myself  quite  clear.  I  had  refer 
ence  to  —  " 

"  David,"  interrupted  Tewksbury,  "  do 
you  see  that  lad  down  at  the  other  end, 
the  chap  with  the  white  hyacinth  in 
his  buttonhole  ?  He  is  Carrol  De  Lancy, 

[  231   ] 


T'he  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


one  of  our  most  eminent  cotillion  lead 
ers." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  I  have 
never  seen  one."  After  a  look  through  his 
glasses,  he  turned  to  Tewksbury,  his  eyes 
twinkling,  and  whispered,  "And  a  little 
child  shall  lead  them." 

"Not  such  a  child  as  he  looks,"  said 
Tewksbury.  "  He  '11  be  presented  to  you 
later,  and  will  ask  you  for  the  loan  of  his 
cab  fare.  He  never  carries  any  money  in 
his  evening  clothes.  Says  it  bulges  him 
and  spoils  his  figure.  He's  got  a  flat  latch 
key  which  he  keeps  in  his  hat  lining.  He 
gets  his  corsets  from  Klob  in  Vienna,  who 
makes  for  the  Pope's  guard.  They  are  the 
best  set  up  chaps  in  Europe,  bar  none  ;  and 
the  reason  is  that  their  corsets  are  made  in 
one  piece  of  elastic,  which  goes  on  over 
the  head.  It  takes  two  men  to  put  'em  on, 
and  they  say  they  are  never  taken  off." 

"Dear  me,"  said  the  Bishop,  "I  had 
no  idea — who  is  that  man  with  the 
side  whiskers,  the  one  speaking  to  the 
waiter? " 

[  232  ] 


'The  Eye  of  the  Harem 


"Oh,"  replied  Tewksbury,  "that's 
Jamieson,  the  most  awful  millionnaire 
here.  He  's  drunk  half  that  bottle,  and 
now  he  is  telling  the  waiter  that  it  is 
corked.  That 's  a  habit.  He  paid  a  thou 
sand  dollars  the  other  day  to  become  a 
life  member  of  the  club.  He  immediately 
began  to  think.  'If  I  die  inside  of  five 
years,'  he  said  to  me,  'my  estate  will  lose 
money,  as  the  annual  dues  are  two  hun 
dred.  What  would  you  do?' 

"  I  couldn't  advise  him.  Later  he  came 
to  me  radiant. 

" '  I  've  fixed  that  matter  I  was  speaking 
to  you  about,'  he  said.  c  I  've  taken  out  a 
five-year  policy  on  my  life  for  a  thousand 
dollars.  My  estate  can't  lose  much.  One 
has  to  look  after  these  things." 

"Dear  me,"  said  the  Bishop,  again. 
"  I  had  no  idea — and  he  is  of  a  very  old 
family,  is  he  not?" 

"  I  should  say  so,"  replied  Tewksbury. 
"Good  old  Bible  family.  A  lot  of  his  an 
cestors  ran  violently  down  a  steep  place 
into  the  sea,  and  —  " 

[  233  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  Tewksbury,"  called  a  man  from  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  "they  say  that 
when  you  were  in  Turkey  last  winter  the 
Sultan  got  sweet  on  you  and  gave  you 
the  Eye  of  the  Harem.  Can't  we  have  a 
look  at  it,  or  have  you  locked  it  up  in 
some  safe  deposit  vault  down  town?" 

"  No,"  said  Tewksbury,  "  I  wore  it 
to  the  races  to-day,  for  luck,  and  I  am 
ashamed  to  say,  I  have  got  it  on  yet,"  and 
he  took  off  his  ring  and  passed  it  on  —  a 
blue  diamond  as  large  as  a  filbert,  with 
pink  and  white  flashes  through  it  that 
made  the  millionnaires  gasp.  To  the 
Bishop  it  was  only  something  to  marvel 
at  and  admire  ;  to  the  others,  it  was  some 
thing  to  covet  and  appraise. 

"A  hundred  thousand  dollars,  if  it  is 
worth  anything,"  whispered  the  Bishop's 
right-hand  neighbor.  "Such  jewels  should 
be  suppressed.  They  breed  crime.  They 
make  thieves  and  poisoners.  How  often 
do  you  suppose  blood  has  been  spilled  on 
account  of  that  stone?" 

The  Bishop  did  not  reply,  for  just  then 

[  234  ] 


The  Eye  of  the  Harem 


a  servant  offered  him  a  huge  bowl  of 
white  and  black  grapes,  and,  as  he  helped 
himself  to  a  small  cluster,  he  uncovered 
a  crimson-cheeked  nectarine.  He  had  for 
gotten  his  wife's  commission. 

"Are  you  ill?"  asked  his  neighbor. 
"You  look  rather  white.  Let  me  get  you 
some  brandy." 

"No,"  said  the  Bishop,  with  a  faint 
smile,  "  it  is  my  conscience,  not  my  stom 
ach,  that  is  troubling  me.  I  have  thought 
too  much  of  my  own  pleasure  to-day,  and 
too  little  of  that  of  others.  Now  I  must  go 
and  confess;"  and  he  rose  from  his  chair. 

"Not  going,  are  you,  David?  "asked 
Tewksbury. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Bishop,  "I  must  say 
good  night." 

"Well,"  said  Tewksbury,  "  I  '11  see  you 
out,  and  if  no  one  will  have  any  more 
drink,  we  will  have  our  coffee  in  the 
other  room.  By  the  way,  where  is  my 
ring?"  and  he  held  up  the  hand  upon 
which  he  had  worn  it. 

There  followed  a  moment's  silence  and 

[  235  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


then —  "I  passed  it  on,"  said  one,  "and 
I,"  "and  I,"  said  each.  They  shook  the 
napkins  and  searched  the  floor.  The  co 
tillion  leader  took  one  of  the  candles 
and  disappeared  under  the  table.  No  dia 
mond.  "Never  mind,"  said  Tewksbury, 
"it  will  turn  up  all  right.  Don't  think 
any  more  about  it." 

Then  they  thought  about  it  very  hard 
indeed,  and  a  silence  ensued  that  became 
embarrassing.  It  was  broken  by  Jamie- 
son,  the  multi-millionnaire,  who  walked 
unsteadily  but  rapidly  to  the  door  and 
locked  it. 

"  I  move  we  all  be  searched,"  he  cried, 
in  a  voice  made  strident  by  drink.  "  I 
can't  afford  to  have  diamonds  like  that 
disappear  at  dinner-tables  where  I  am. 
Search  me  first  and  let  me  get  out.  Who's 
next?" 

"  Mr.  Jamieson,"  said  Tewksbury, 
"you  forget  yourself.  These  are  my 
guests.  I  don't  have  guests  that  have  to 
be  searched." 

"You've  got  nothing  to  do  with  it," 

[  236  ] 


The  Eye  of  the  Harem 


screamed  Jamieson.  "  It  is  a  measure  of 
self-preservation  for  each  of  us.  We  can't 
go  until  the  stone  is  found,  or  until  it  is 
proved  that  we  have  n't  got  it.  Do  you 
all  agree?" 

And  they  all  agreed  but  one  —  the 
Bishop.  He  stood,  very  ere<5t  and  very 
pale,  his  hand  extended  to  Tewksbury. 

"  I  think  I  '11  go  now,  Robert,"  he  said, 
and  then  he  turned  and,  looking  down  the 
room,  added,  "  Good  night,  gentlemen." 

There  were  a  few  awkward  responses  as 
Tewksbury  unlocked  the  door  and  went 
out  with  his  friend.  The  two  did  not 
speak  until  they  stood  on  the  steps  of  the 
club.  Then  Tewksbury  put  his  hand  on 
the  Bishop's  shoulder,  and  said,  "  Dave,  it 
was  awfully  square  of  you  to  stand  up  and 
refuse  to  be  searched.  That  drunken  fool, 
Jamieson,  put  you  all  in  a  dreadful  hole, 
and  I  know  how  hard  it  was  for  you  to 
walk  out.  You  did  it  for  my  sake." 

"No,  Bob,"  said  the  Bishop,  sadly,  "I 
did  it  for  my  own  sake.  I  didn't  dare  to 
be  searched.  I  am  a  thief." 

[  237  ] 


T'he  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


"  My  God,  Dave,  what  do  you  mean? " 
gasped  Tewksbury. 

"I  mean,"  said  the  Bishop,  "that  I 
stole  this,"  and  putting  his  hand  into  his 
skirt  pocket  he  drew  out  a  neftarine. 

Tewksbury  glanced  at  it  and  burst  into 
a  laugh. 

"  It  is  no  laughing  matter,"  said  the 
Bishop.  "It  made  a  sneak  and  coward 
of  me.  I  had  to  run  away  or  be  exposed. 
Fancy  an  unworthy  successor  of  the  apos 
tles  searched,  and  found  with  stolen  fruit 
on  his  person; "  and  drawing  back  his  arm 
he  flung  the  ne<5tarine  far  down  the  street. 

"Poor  old  boy,"  said  Tewksbury,  "I 
should  not  have  asked  you  to  such  a  din 
ner." 

"It  is  not  your  fault,"  said  the  Bishop. 
"  I  deserve  it  all.  I  began  the  day  wrong. 
I  was  not  conscientious  on  the  wharf  this 
morning  in  regard  to  my  vestments.  And 
then  I  permitted  Maria  to  believe  that  I 
left  her  to  go  to  Trinity  Chapel,  and  in 
stead  of  going,  I  drove  in  the  park.  I  gave 
her  money  to  the  groom  when  she  had 

[  238  ] 


The  Eye  of  the  Harem 


charged  me  to  put  it  in  the  offertory.  I 
wrote  her  that  I  was  dining  with  you,  but 
did  not  mention  the  club,  and  I  forgot  all 
about  her  fruit  until  that  on  your  table 
reminded  me  of  it.  I  am  sorry  that  you 
have  lost  your  ring,  Bob,  but  I  have  lost 
much  more — my  self-respecl:." 

"Nonsense,"  exclaimed  Tewksbury. 
"You're  morbid.  You  spend  too  much 
time  with  curates  and  women." 

"  I  am  going  home  to  a  woman  now," 
said  the  Bishop,  "and  I  am  wondering 
just  what  I  shall  say  to  her.  Good  night," 
and  he  started  down  the  street. 

He  walked  very  slowly,  and  he  even 
took  a  little  stroll  in  Madison  Square  be 
fore  he  entered  the  hotel.  When  he  did 
go  in,  he  declined  the  offer  of  the  eleva 
tor  and  climbed  the  stairs.  He  opened  the 
door  very  carefully  and  crept  into  the  sit 
ting-room.  It  was  dark,  but  a  faint  glim 
mer  of  light  came  from  his  wife's  room. 
He  could  hear  her  breathing.  She  was 
asleep.  He  was  reprieved  until  morning. 
With  a  thankful  heart  he  groped  his  way 

[   239  ] 


The  Monk  and  the  Dancer 


toward  his  own  door.  He  had  almost 
reached  it  when  he  stepped  upon  the 
projecting  rocker  of  a  chair.  There  was  a 
bang  against  the  wall,  a  cry  from  his  wife, 
a  sudden  gleam  of  light  as  she  turned  up 
the  gas,  and  then  the  Bishop  of  Porto 
Rico  realized  that  his  crimes  had  over 
taken  him. 

He  began  to  talk  very  rapidly :  "Tewks- 
bury  asked  particularly  after  you,  my  dear, 
—  very  particularly.  We  had  a  delight 
ful  dinner.  I  don't  know  when  I  have  had 
so  charming  a  dinner.  We  had  oysters 
and  soup  and  fish  and  roast  and  snipe  — 
I  think,  yes,  snipe — and,  ha,  ha,  ha,  there 
was  a  young  man  present  who  leads  cotil 
lions  and  wears  corsets.  It  was  a  delight 
ful  dinner,  most  delightful — Tewksbury 
asked  most  particularly  —  " 

"That  will  do,"  said  his  wife.  "You 
may  complete  the  menu  in  the  morning. 
I  wonder  what  they  think  down  in  the 
office  of  the  Bishop  of  Porto  Rico  com 
ing  in  at  this  hour  of  the  night.  Leave 
the  neclarines  in  the  sitting-room  and  go 
to  bed."  [  240  ] 


The  Eye  of  the  Harem 


"  My  dear,"  began  the  Bishop,  "  I  very 
much  regret  —  " 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  outer  door. 
The  Bishop  answered  it.  A  servant  from 
the  club  stood  in  the  hall  with  a  small 
basket  in  his  hand. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said,  taking  off  his  hat, 
"  Mr.  Tewksbury  sends  these  nectarines 
with  his  compliments,  and  bids  me  say 
that  he  found  the  ring.  He  put  it  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket  when  it  was  passed  back 
to  him,  and  forgot  all  about  it.  Good 
night,  my  lord." 

"Good  night,"  said  the  Bishop,  "and 
God  bless  you." 


[24-  ] 


D.  B.  Updike 

'The  Merrymount  Press 

Boston 


A     000  672  248     2 


